Tears of Betrayal
by Maverick Point
Summary: Tommy Vercetti combats the Feds, teams up with a stranger from Liberty City, and asserts his dominance on the streets of Vice City --- all while information about his organization is leaking out in a most unexpected way (to Tommy)
1. Evasion

A sleek, black, federal issue car raced down the street past Ken Rosenberg & Co. Law Offices in Washington Beach, on past Rafael's clothing shop, up the road toward Leaf Links Golfing Resort, and over the bridge heading south toward Starfish Island. Once it neared the large estate on the isle, the scenery changed from the pleasant tourist-attraction Florida to something much more horrifying. The driver leaned forward and hit a switch under the dashboard to activate the hidden siren behind the windshield on the passenger side. It flashed blue and red light on utter carnage. The air was screened with hovering smoke, bellicose and trembling. Police cars lay charred, burned, and reduced to nothing but smoldering husks and wreckage. Officers and civilians alike were scattered dead or dying on the sidewalk, in the road, or on the grass.  
  
Special Agent Graydon Creed winced at the unfolding scene, completely awed. "What in God's good name happened here?"  
  
His partner swerved the car avoid a woman, obviously dead who lay in the car's path. Her shopping bags from the North Point Mall were strewn about her. "You ever heard of the Forelli Gang from up in Liberty City, New York?" Special Agent Patrick Ford asked Creed, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white.  
  
"Yeah, they run parts of the drug trafficking cartel up there," Creed responded absently, peering out his window at the scene with growing disgust and unease.  
  
"Well, they have this bastard, Thomas Vercetti, who run around and does their dirty little chores for them, or at least they did. Vercetti took the fall for a massacre in Harwood that left eleven people dead. They sent him away for fifteen years inside. He was recently released and top gun Sonny Forelli must have sent him down here. He was supposed to be dealing with a routine drug exchange with some crackpot from the Columbian Cartel, but something happened and Vercetti ran for cover. The deal never went down. We had an eye on him for a little while, but eventually, we lost track of him. This," Ford gestured with his hand angrily, "is where he's decided to come back onto radar."  
  
"Yeah, but why at the Coke Baron's Mansion? I thought that prick Ricardo Diaz ran his little business out of there. The way I heard it, Diaz has been operating out of there for years," Creed said.  
  
"Vercetti must have taken over the capital, permanently, if you know what I mean." Ford shook his head. He pulled the car up next to a flickering street light, which was where a congregation of some fifteen police cars and a securi-van were parked. Those officers still left alive milled about, enjoying the moment of peace after the storm.  
  
Creed and Ford exited their car and were immediately approached by a stocky police chief who looked like he had been through the third ring of Hell and back. A large gash in his forearm dripped crimson blood all over his neatly pressed uniform shirt.  
  
"You the Feds?" He asked roughly. Ford and Creed nonchalantly flashed their identification badges at him simultaneously. The police chief nodded curtly and led the two agents over to the general mass of flashing lights and irritated people in front of the mansion's entrance.  
  
"I warn you to be careful," the chief said. "This guy us dangerous, and he sure as hell resisted arrest. He's got an entire group of lackeys that follows him around, and every single one of them is armed with an Uzi. My boys managed to take out of few of them, but some of them fled., so be on the look out."  
  
"Resisted arrest," Creed huffed. "That's for damn sure."  
  
"You got Vercetti?" Ford wanted to know as he pushed past a few officers who stood on the front porch smoking cigarettes and grumbling to each other in low voices.  
  
The chief nodded. "Yeah we got him, after a damn four hour recreation of World War II. I lost forty-five good men out there trying to take that asshole out."  
  
"Noticed a lot of civilians too," Ford muttered. They entered the house. Officers were bringing weapons from every part of the mansion and dumping them into a growing pile in the front foyer. The pile was beginning to look impossibly large. Creed noticed canisters of nerve gas, concussion grenades, explosive grenades, rocket launchers, rifles, pistols, machine guns, and even brass knuckles.  
  
"Where the hell does this guy get all this stuff?"  
  
"God only knows. He steals them, or buys them, or makes them, I don't know. Who the hell cares," the chief answered bitterly. The three of them skirted around the pile of weapons and approached the bottom of the huge central stair case that led to the second floor balconies and the front office.  
  
At the top of this flight, eight police officers stood with their hand guns trained squarely on a single man, who stood in the center of the circle. Vercetti stood there calmly, his hands raised where everyone could see them clearly. He stared unfazed down the barrel of a well manicured Glock 9 of the police officer who stood directly in front of him. Blood ran into his eyes from a deep cut above his right brow.  
  
Ford drew his issued Sig Sauer 380 from his waist holster and gently pushed one of the uptight, exhausted officers out of his way. "Thomas Vercetti, good to see you."  
  
"I'm sure," Vercetti replied.  
  
"What are you doing here? Your turf is up in Liberty."  
  
"I wanted to see the sights. I had heard the sea breeze is wonderful this time of year. I've always wanted to come down to Miami. Call me a tourist," Vercetti answered. "I never knew you police types cared so much to greet so warmly, and all." He smiled and Ford fumed.  
  
"Don't play stupid with me, Vercetti. You killed all those men out there in cold blood and you don't care," Ford growled. He pulled back the hammer on his pistol, tightening his grip on the gun altogether. "I should kill you right where you stand because you sure as hell don't deserve to live."  
  
"I'm not playing stupid, FBI Man. You're playing plenty stupid for the both of us," Vercetti said, repeating what he had once said to an angry café owner in Little Havana. That smile never left his visage.  
  
"Shut up." Ford's hand tightened again, his finger brushing the trigger lightly. He turned to a close by officer suddenly. "Get him out of here before my hand slips," he ordered. Creed appeared next to him.  
  
"Are we taking him back to Liberty City or are we keeping him here?" Creed asked. Ford though about it; it was a good and valid question. Vice City's prison system was a walk in the park compared to the one up in New York, however, it would be a pain to keep Vercetti under the proper guard while making the switch. It would create weaknesses in the criminal's shackles, and he was great with weak spots.  
  
"We'll have to ask the Bureau. Let's lock him up in Florida State for right now. If the AD wants to transfer him, he can handle all the damn paperwork.," Ford answered at last.  
  
Two of the officers cuffed Vercetti and they dragged him out to the waiting securi-van. Ford and Creed returned to their car. "We'll follow them to the station, and then to the penitentiary after they pick up the Marshals. I want to make sure this prick gets locked up nice and tight," Ford said, starting the engine.  
  
"Is that really necessary, Pat? Why would we need to do all that with the shark's nest of squad cars they've got here?" Creed shifted his gaze to his partner. For the first time, he saw how uncomfortable Ford looked.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
Ford shook his head slowly and guided the car out to follow the traveling police convoy. "Vercetti killed my brother a month back. He hit him with a car as he was running away from some tedious little street gang. My brother didn't even have a chance. I just want to see the guy brought to justice, you know?"  
  
"He didn't seem like he recognized you at all though," Creed observed.  
  
"No, he wouldn't, would he. He's killed so many innocents that I don't think he'd ever remember an individual person," Ford said with a long sigh. "Nevermind it, Gray. Don't worry about it."  
  
"Okay, whatever you say."  
The remote controlled concussion grenade detonated under the securi-van as it chugged along across the bridge that allowed passage into Little Havana. The sonic force sent the vehicle spinning into the steel railing. The convoy halted in a panic and police officers jumped from their cars. Ford pressed the brakes of his own car and slammed his hands down on the steering wheel.  
  
"No, you idiots! Don't get out of your cars!"  
  
The police instinctively drew their weapons and held them ready, guardind themselves from the rear with their backs pressed against their squad cars. The night remained strangely silent.  
  
Inside the securi-van, Vercetti picked himself up off the floor the best he could with the hindering cuffs around his wrists. "Damn," he whispered, wincing. "Ouch."  
  
The Vercetti gang had gathered under the bridge, and on the shores of each side, out of sight. Leading them was Lance Vance, who stood balanced shakily on the bow of one of the speed boats in the water.  
  
"All right guys, this is it. We have got to be careful now because they have Tommy in that wagon. We don't want to kill him, right? Let's go," he commanded.  
  
They moved out. One groups crept around to flank the guards from the side while another jumped up from its concealed position behind the thick bushes to distract attention, and the gunfire began. The speed boats roared out from underneath the pass and shooters sitting in the back began to tear apart the people on the road. Lance's boat pulled up along side the shore and Lance hoped out. Then the boat rejoined the fleet. Lance scampered into the bushes to get topside.  
  
The police scattered, trying to eliminate the threat and at the same time, keep their lives. Ford and Creed leapt from their car and joined the battle, forgetting all about the absurdness of the situation.  
  
Lance went around the gunfire and hopped on top of the securi-van from the hood. He jumped down and unlatched the back door as quickly as he could. He clamored inside and turned around promptly to avoid being shot in the back.  
  
"Hey Tommy, miss me?"  
  
Vercetti raised an eyebrow. "Only if you can get me out of here alive. If not, no. I didn't miss you at all," he said flatly. Lance shook his head and tossed a Colt .45 to him, which he caught backwards with his cuffed hands. Lance swiftly picked the lock on the cuffs and Vercetti, now free, rubbed his wrists. Then he held up his gun and smiled. "Onward and upward," he said.  
  
Lance and Vercetti both grabbed the top edge of the securi-van's back door and hoisted themselves onto the roof. Vercetti took a moment to check how much ammunition Lance had brought him. The bullets, although small, were soft-tipped, so they would definitely pack a punch. Vercetti clicked the magazine back in place and flipped the safety off. The he joined Lance in the shoot-out. From their position on top of the van, they had extremely good access to those scrambling around below them. They began to pick off their opposition on no time flat.  
  
"This is NOT going well," Creed said rather needlessly, ducking as bullets flew past him. Someone hit the streetlight nearby and glass rained down on all present. Another light blew, the another, and another. Before long, the bridge had been plunged into darkness.  
  
"We've got to take out Vercetti!" Ford shouted hoarsely over the mayhem. "He's got a better shot than anyone here."  
  
Creed nodded and both agents raised their Sigs. They aimed over the top of the railing they were hiding behind and aimed at Vercetti, who was still on top of the van, busy reloading his gun.  
  
Ford's bullet hit Vercetti in the right shoulder and he reeled a short distance before losing his balance all together and falling off the roof of the van. He landed on the street below with a winded "oof!" as his breath left him. He didn't, however amazing it was, lose his grip on his Colt .45.  
  
Lance risked a glance in Vercetti's general direction. "Tommy? You okay down there?" He didn't have time to worry though. A cop appeared on the roof behind him, having climbed up onto the hood undetected.  
  
"Fine," Vercetti wheezed, trying to catch some air. "I'm fine, but we should really hightail it out of here before this gets any worse. I don't want to end up dead!"  
  
Lance finished shooting the cop and jumped down next to Vercetti. He hauled him to his feet and let him lean on him for a brief moment while he got himself back into sorts. "Let's go then, Tommy."  
  
They ran towards Little Havana, leaving the convoy behind them. Vercetti shouted to his gang as he ran. "Come on, let's get the hell out of here!"  
  
The officers left standing attempted to give chase, but the surviving gang members rapidly hijacked passing cars and disappeared. The police choppers managed to locate and capture quite a few of the newly acquired Vercetti vehicles, but Vercetti himself and Lance managed to elude them. Patrick Ford, was not a happy man, and he vowed to find Vercetti if it took him the rest of his life. 


	2. Kaufman Cabs

"Ow! Jesus Christ, Mercedes! Who the hell taught you how do to that, the Nazis?!" Tommy Vercetti felt like complaining, so he did. After all, he had every right to; he was the one who had been shot through the shoulder while standing on top of a prison transport vehicle, right? Mercedes Cortez stood off to his right, having seen the ruckus of the night on the evening news.  
  
Apparently, Vice City's finest forgot to hang the "Do Not Disturb" sign outside the door on this one. The news crews had infested the scene like locusts, and a helicopter for News 5 at Ten had followed the convoy to the bridge, where it stayed high enough to watch the action. Everything had been caught on tape. Mercedes, being worried about a good friend, ventured onto the streets and managed to meet her boys at Kaufman Cabs in Little Haiti. There they had all ducked into a back room for the night, free of the police for the time being.  
  
Mercedes pulled a canvas cloth tight around the five layers of gauze bandage she already had covering the gunshot wound in Vercetti's right shoulder. Vercetti winced, grumbling something incoherent under his breath and shifting his weight where he sat on a line of crates against the wall closest to the door.  
  
"Hold still, Tommy," Mercedes snapped. "Would you rather leave it alone so it can fester and eventually claim your life?" Vercetti shook his head, making a face. She nodded. "Thought so." She gave the canvas strip one last tug and tied it off. Vercetti grimaced and put a hand over it, frowning.  
  
He, Mercedes, Lance, and twelve of the surviving Vercetti boys were gathered in Kaufman Cabs' secondary garage. Vercetti had purchased the company as it floundered about on the brink of bankruptcy a while back, he wasn't sure when exactly. He had pulled the company above water and nearly destroyed the threat of its competitor, Vice City Cab Company. He had rather enjoyed that. But for now, the Vercetti gang would be safe and taken care of, for if the FBI or the VCPD was to come looking for them, Kaufman's employees would gladly deny everything and remain loyal to their boss and protector.  
  
"What now?" Lance spoke up then, from his position on a few stacked wooden crate in the corner. He peered at Vercetti, watching him closely. He had always admired Vercetti for his work and his efficiency, and he sometimes wished he could be more like him. He never said anything about it of course. Vercetti didn't like it when his friends belittled themselves. He said it made them weak and susceptible to traitorous acts.  
  
Vercetti shook his head and sighed, looking down and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "I don't know." Exhaustion was evident in his voice, and it hung over the occupants of the room like a shroud of death. "Maybe we should just stay here for the night and then head over to Print Works tomorrow for some cash. I have a feeling we'll need it. Then we can figure out what to do from there with clear heads."  
  
"Yeah, okay, but in any case, the cops are going to be crawling all over your assets, Tommy. They're going to be looking for you, for us. We're going to need a new way to move on the streets so we won't end up getting capped in the ass," Lance said, stifling a yawn.  
  
Vercetti watched him and then nodded. "Yes, well, they know I own the boatyard and Coke Baron's Masion, and they might even know that I had something to do with the success of InterGlobal Films. But I have been careful enough with the others to have kept them a secret," he said, counting his assets in his head.  
  
"Even so," Mercedes said, entering the conversation, "the entire country now knows that you're on the loose thanks to those crack heads in the press. You'll never be able to walk around this town in broad daylight. Not only are the street gangs and the police after you, but there will now be hundreds of civilians out for the reward on your head."  
  
Lance nodded his agreement wearily.  
  
Vercetti rubbed at his sinuses, silent for a moment. Then he looked up at Lance. "All right. Let's just get some sleep. We can sort this mess out tomorrow morning."  
  
There were some grumbled responses as the gang commenced collapsing into the dusty lawn chairs that had been set up around the room, or into the backseats of partially destroyed cabs. Lance fell asleep right where he sat in his little corner on the crates. Vercetti watched them quietly, and Mercedes watched him.  
  
"You aren't going to go to sleep, are you Tommy."  
  
"Nah. I'm keep going to keep an eye out. I don't want to be caught by surprise or anything. I don't know what kind of help the police are going to get now. They already had the feds, so they might be stepping it up again," he said.  
  
"You aren't gonna be doing nobody any good if you don't get some sleep. I can see you're tired. I'm sure the people in the main office will give plenty of warning when and if the police decided to raid the place," Mercedes responded quietly. She sat down next to him, leaning back against the wall.  
  
He raised an eyebrow at her. "We'll see." He couldn't remember Mercedes ever showing real concern for him, and for that matter, it was damn weird for her to be matronly. He frowned and looked back down the floor, praying to the god he'd never believed in that things would eventually untangle themselves to that he could breathe without fear again.  
  
"You know, my father could probably help you out here, Tommy. You know, get you out of Florida or something. Do you think I should give him a call?" Mercedes interrupted his musing, and he looked at her, a little surprised.  
  
"Isn't he in Costa Rica or something like that by now?" Vercetti had done a few jobs for Mercedes' father in order to get cash way back when he had first been starting out in Vice City. The Colonel had been greatly impressed at Vercetti's competence and with his ability to keep a promise. By the time Vercetti assisted Cortez and his men in getting out of Vice City's shark infested waters when trouble loomed, he had come to the conclusion that he was never going to see the generous Latino again.  
  
"Could be, but Daddy would do anything for a friend. I'm sure he wouldn't mind coming to pick you up," Mercedes said. She pulled at her short skirt, waiting for him to answer her. He was considering it, wondering it would be wise to hop out of town now, before things boiled down to the barest of bones.  
  
"No," he said at last. "Keep him as a reserve. We're not quite sure what we're up against just yet. Leaving the country might present undue problems. You know, more issues than would have been encountered if we had stayed for a little while."  
  
He hid a yawn behind his hand, and Mercedes stood up. She patted him gently on his wounded shoulder and walked away to find a more comfortable place to settle down. He smiled, hating to see her leave, but loving to watch her go.  
  
*********************  
  
Patrick Ford had an idea. After the night's bridge mishap, he had rushed back to the Vice City Police Department and immersed himself in computer files, trying to find something, anything to use against Vercetti. He managed to pull up the FBI database on his borrowed computer terminal, and after briefly forgetting his password, he finally found what he was looking for. Vercetti didn't have much of a family, but Ford was able to find exactly what he thought he needed in the "Remaining Relatives" section of Vercetti's large file. With his plan firmly placed in his mind, quickly grabbed Creed and booked seats on the next flight out of Miami to New York.  
  
"Now will you tell me where the hell we're going?" Creed sipped at his diet Coke and watched his partner gaze out the window the cabin at the clouds that were slipping soundlessly underneath the vessel. Creed didn't have even the faintest inkling as to where they were headed specifically. All he knew was that he was on a flight, sitting next to Ford, bound for Liberty City. Ford had refused to tell him just what was going on, but Creed had a feeling it was something big. His partner often got an odd, sadistic look behind his eyes when something huge was about to happen.  
  
"I'll tell you when we get there," Ford replied.  
  
"Quit being so damn overdramatic!" Creed spoke a little too loudly in his frustration, and many people in the cabin turned to look in the direction of the disturbance. Creed turned a shade of red and lowered his voice sheepishly with a nervous laugh. "Come on, Pat. You're making me look like an idiot here."  
  
"You're making yourself look like and idiot. Just sit tight for a few hours. Enjoy the flight, have a drink," Ford said with a broad smile. "Don't worry, you'll see when we get there. Relax." There was a beat of silence. "Besides," Ford added, "I like build up suspense around you. Your reactions are priceless."  
  
"You are one mean bastard," Creed said, pouting.  
  
"Yep. You sure said it," Ford replied.  
  
*******************  
  
Lance Vance woke up with a horrible crick in his neck. The position he had slept had not been kind to him, but then again, you couldn't expect anything different. He had slept on a stack of crates jammed in the corner, after all. He rubbed the side of his neck, wincing. A quick glance around the quiet garage revealed that he was one of four people awake. Mercedes was sitting in the corner farthest from him, legs crossed as she watched the security monitor viewing the front of the room. Vercetti had installed that camera himself, muttering something about how people couldn't be too careful. It was just a precaution -- just in case something happened. Two of the gang members were sitting on either side of a tiny, round table in the center of the room, cleaning and oiling a slew of weapons.  
  
The other ten gang members remained in the deep throes of slumber where they had fallen last night, much like Vercetti himself, who was stretched out across the line of crates, his arms crossed behind his head. Looking at him there, Lance found it somewhat difficult to see him as Vice City's most wanted criminal. Sleeping, Vercetti looked just like any other man. Lance shook his head slowly.  
  
"Morning Mercedes," he called across the room, stretching out his stiff joints somewhat and hopping off his crates. He dusted off his pants. "What's on television?"  
  
"Not a lot," she replied. "A few Haitians tried to rob the old woman in the front office, but she shoved that old sawed off shot gun that Tommy gave her into their faces and made short work of that." Mercedes laughed softly as Lance neared her.  
  
Lance glanced at the monitor over her shoulder. "Who in the hell his that?" He squinted at the fuzzy, black and white display as a man in a light suit walked into Kaufman's main garage. The man approached the office and tapped on the window. The old woman looked up with narrowed eyes. Lance leaned in for a better look. "Is that Ken Rosenberg?"  
  
Mercedes examined the display. "You mean that crazy, insecure lawyer that Tommy says is no good for anything except getting high?" Vercetti, although he was fond of Rosenberg, did not speak highly of his ability to handle situations that often arose.  
  
"Yeah," Lance said with a soft chuckle. "That would be the guy." He walked over to the door and opened it a crack, just enough to see out. He heard the clerk say something about not "knowing no Vercetti fellow," and Rosenberg scoffed.  
  
"Listen lady, you don't understand. I'm Tommy's friend! I'm his ally, his partner, his associate!" He waves his arms about in jerky gesticulations for emphasis. The clerk did not look amused.  
  
"I'm telling you. I don't know anyone by the name of Tommy, or by the name Vercetti. Now move on out of here before I move you myself," she said flatly.  
  
Lance chose that moment to intervene. He stepped out of the doorway, half in the back room and half in the main garage. "It's okay, Kathryn. We know him. Rosenberg, get your ass back here before someone finds it convenient to shoot you in the back of the head," he said.  
  
Rosenberg shot a nervous glance at Kathryn, who had a hand on her newly acquired weapon. Not wanting to stick around for too much longer to see what kind of shot she had, he quickly followed Lance and they ducked back into the secondary quarter.  
  
"What the hell are you doing here, Ken?" Lance closed the door behind them quietly and turned around to face the lawyer, who was straightening his large-framed glasses.  
  
Rosenberg was about to respond when a noise behind him caught his attention. He whirled around in time to see Vercetti sit up on the crates and rub his eyes in way of waking himself up. With a deep sigh, he became as aware as he was going to get for the moment. He looked around. Rosenberg's eyes lit up.  
  
"Tommy! Jesus man, I thought you were dead! I mean, that's the word on the streets. You know, I was talking to Avery Carrington about a lot where we might be able to build something really useful, like I don't know. Something to increase our franchise," he rattled.  
  
Vercetti blinked. "Huh?" He shook his head as if to clear it. "Wait, what the fuck are you doing here, Ken?"  
  
"I was just asking him that," Lance stated, feeling as if he was doing the right thing.  
  
"There were rumors around that you had been killed in a police raid last night. I just dropped by to confirm some stuff. Let me tell you, I had to go to just about every one of the businesses to find you because--" Ken started.  
  
Vercetti jumped of the crates and grabbed Rosenberg by the lapels of his jacket and slammed him hard against the support post behind him, successfully cutting him off. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Vercetti demanded loudly. "You got shit for brains or something?! The fucking police know that you know me, Ken, and you probably just led them here!"  
  
Rosenberg tried to stutter a response, frightened by Vercetti's sudden outburst of anger, but Vercetti's attention had already shifted. "And if they followed this asshole here, Lance, then you've just confirmed our presence by letting him in here!"  
  
Although Vercetti had not released Rosenberg, Lance look a step away from his fury. He slowly backed up, his hands raised in front of him. Vercetti let go of Rosenberg, roughly pushing him back in the process. "God! I'm surrounded by total morons!"  
  
"Hey listen, Tommy. I'm really sorry. I wasn't thinking," Lance said, finally finding his voice. He watched Rosenberg, still terrified, brush off the front of his suit and straighten his glasses again.  
  
"Oh," Vercetti spat venomously. "You weren't thinking. I suppose that makes everything just fine and dandy, now doesn't it." His voice dripped with sarcasm. Vercetti paced a small square then took out his anger on an innocent box that sat nearby. It sailed through the air and hit the far wall over a sleeping gang member, who woke with a startled yelp. Vercetti paused for a moment, and the room fell silent. Sirens could be heard wailing in the distance.  
  
Over the hidden intercom, Kathryn gave a quick warning. "Heads up, Boss!"  
  
"Shit!" Vercetti threw a hard look at Lance and Rosenberg before addressing his gang. "Got up boys, it's time to party." He moved over to a corner of the room diagonal from the one the security monitor sat in and moved a paint shelf rack away from the wall. With that out of the way, he kneeled down and pried up a loose floorboard, revealing a stash of handguns, assault rifles, grenades, and machine guns.  
  
"Let's lock and load," Lance exclaimed, catching the AK-47 that Vercetti tossed to him. Vercetti himself shoved a Colt Python into his front pocket, clipped a few grenades to his belt, and locked the chamber of a Spas-12 shotgun. The gang followed suit, gathering the rest of the weapons from the hiding place. Rosenberg and Mercedes hung back. They weren't equipped with the skill necessary for such a dangerous operation. Vercetti nodded to Mercedes and then led his gang out the back door and up the fire escape ladders to meet the screaming sirens from the roof of the building. War was about ensue. 


	3. Meeting Junior

"You have got to be kidding me." Graydon Creed sat next to his partner in the rented Ford Taurus, gawking. They had stepped off the airplane at roughly three o'clock and then waited in a horrific line at the Avis counter for nearly two more hours. When they finally received their vehicle, they had climbed inside, and Ford revealed his secret plan to Creed. "That kid is still alive? He's out there, free? I thought they booked him, and put him away forever sometime last year!"  
  
Ford scoffed, his hands tightening around the steering wheel. "Yeah, some federal prison system we have here, right? The guy broke out during transport and disappeared into the night so fast that it had Uncle Sam's head spinning for weeks on end," he said, his growing disgust weighing his voice down. "He turned up working for the Mafia down in Portland, the Yakuza in Staunton, and few faceless street gangs all over the place. He's been wrecking havoc up here."  
  
"Kid really likes to dance on the edge of the switchblade knife, doesn't he?" Creed took a moment to think about that. It was well known that the Yakuza and the Mafia rarely got along. Old Salvatore Leone had allegedly been killed by a Yakuza hit man, and the Mafia was not happy about it. Someone had taken out the Yakuza lords Asuka and Kenji, supposedly the cartel, but everyone was pointing fingers. The Yakusa chose to pick a fight with the Mafia. War between them was beginning to become quite heated. Creed had to wonder how the kid managed to stay alive while working for the both of them. Was it possible that he had found a way to play both sides without being caught?  
  
"So, he's really the guy you think he is, then?" Creed turned at looked at Ford, who was becoming increasingly irritated with the gridlock traffic around them.  
  
"Well, according the Bureau files he is," Ford said. "Apparently, he lives down in Belville Park on Staunton Island, but the records weren't exactly sure about that, because he jumps around a lot."  
  
Creed nodded and watched the scenery of Shoreside Vale creep past his window. He had always enjoyed this part of Liberty City because it was so peaceful. No, that was wrong. It wasn't peaceful at all, not anymore. The place was completely overrun by the Columbian Cartel, as well as numerous street gangs, the Purple Nines, the Southside Hoods, and the Redjacks. But, even so, it at least looked peaceful. Of course, it hadn't been so a few months ago when there had been a holocaust on the Cochrane Dam. That had shredded the entire island apart. Since then, though, everything was beginning to settle back into the ashes. Creed shook his head. What was the world coming to?  
  
Ford drummed on the steering wheel impatiently while waiting for the lift bridge to finish allowing a large cargo ship passage under it. He watched the section of the road lower back into place at an alarmingly slow speed, his patience starting to wear extremely thin. "What a waste of time," he mused. "Did you know that this stupid bridge goes up and down even if there are no ships to pass under?"  
  
"Really? Why?" Creed was jarred out of his thoughts. He turned to Ford, his eyes refocusing on reality.  
  
"I have no idea. The goddamned thing goes up every fifteen freakin' minutes," Ford growled. "Damn the man who decided it would be a good idea to invent time regulations." The bridge finally finished it aggravatingly long decent and locked into place, completing the road. Ford pressed the accelerator and began to move with the mass of traffic that had also been trapped at the bridge. The car passed the sign that welcomed people to Staunton Island, and Ford nodded. "Here it is," he said. He took a left after the underground passage tunnel and entered Belville Park. Passing the actual park part of the region, Creed noticed that the area, although swarming with less-than-inconspicuous gang members, actually looked like a good, somewhat normal place. It seemed like the average New York central park.  
  
"It's been about ten years since I was last here in Belville," Creed said.  
  
"Don't reminisce over there. Stay in the here and now," Ford replied, pulling into an alley between two buildings that would have been nearly impossible to see had the driver not known exactly where it was. "This is it," he announced, parking the car and pressing the emergency brake. He looked at Creed, then unbuckled his seat belt and climbed out of the car.  
  
The two agents approached a large, metal utility elevator near the far wall of the alley, around the corner from a two car garage on the alley's left side. The lift opened almost immediately as soon as then drew near, and they exchanged glanced. Something suddenly reminded Creed of a cheesy horror movie, the ominous elevator. He quickly shrugged it off. He and Ford entered the lift and the doors closed. After a short, jerky decent into the lower bowels of the alleyway, the doors opened to reveal a tiny compartment. On the broad wall across from the lift, stood a huge, steel vault door.  
  
Creed blinked. "Are you sure this is the right place, Pat?"  
  
Ford looked around, slightly confused himself. "I'm as sure as the Bureau files, Gray. And that's pretty damn sure. I guess." He eyed the vault as he stepped off the elevator. He made his way across the mere closet space of a compartment and pressed a rectangular red light on the left of the door. A loud buzzer echoed harshly through the small area, bouncing off the walls a few times before fading. Creed, who had been just exiting the lift fall back against the wall in terror, hand over his heart, eyes wide. Ford stared at him.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
Creed scrambled to stand erect, straightened his tie, and cleared his throat rather needlessly. He did not meet Ford's amused countenance. "I'm fine," he said softly.  
  
Ford nodded and turned back to the door as the huge dial on the front clicked twice to the right and swung open. A woman stood there, hands on her hips, looking rather annoyed.  
  
"You boys want something?" She didn't look like she really cared why they were there, and it was quite obvious that she just wanted them to leave as soon as possible.  
  
Ford fought to remain organized in the face of her irritation. "Er, yes. Oh, um, actually, we're looking for a man by the name of Vincent Vercetti. We were told he lived here."  
  
"What do you want him for?" The woman asked suspiciously. She continued to glare at them, and the agents couldn't help but feel slightly awkward. "Oh, never mind," she stated. She turned back in the apartment. "Hey Vince! Some men are here to see you!"  
  
There was a long moment of silence, and Creed and Ford exchanged glances once more. The woman, however, grew more irritated. "I don't know," she said, seemingly to no one. "Why don't you get your lazy ass up and see for yourself?"  
  
Ford frowned. Had they stumbled upon some crazy lazy in the middle of New York? God knew there were plenty of those. Suddenly, the woman moved out of the doorway, looming off to one side as a man appeared. He bore some resemblance to Thomas Vercetti, but not a lot, and he was much younger. He wore an expressionless visage, if not slightly angry. He held a well-used Uzi in one hand as he sized the two agents up, his cold brown eyes flickering across each of their faces. His eyes narrowed.  
  
Ford quickly cleared his throat. "Vincent Vercetti, I am agent Patrick Ford, and this is agent Graydon Creed," he gestured to Creed, "and we're working out of Washington on a case in Vice City, Florida involving ---"  
  
Vince was shaking his head gravely. He raised his gun up and tapped himself in the temple, looking a little annoyed. Then he shook his head again. He spoke not a word.  
  
"What?" Creed was curious about this. What an interesting development.  
  
The woman, standing nearby with her arms folded across her chest rolled her eyes and articulated. "He knows what you are working on down in Florida, and he knows you want him to go with you and help you catch that good-for- nothing brother of his. He says he'd rather die first. In short, he refuses."  
  
"Well, uh, excuse me Ms -- erm ---" Ford stopped and waited for her to complete his sentence with her name. She sighed.  
  
"My name is Maria, and I don't give out my last name to strangers, so that's all you'll get from me," she said, her expression darkening. Vince looked at her, somewhat surprised. She shrugged at him.  
  
Creed opened his mouth to say something, but For cut him off. "Right, Maria it is. Forgive me, but can't Mr. Vercetti speak for himself?"  
  
Maria laughed softly. " 'Mr. Vercetti' don't like to talk much," she said.  
  
Creed took the time to examine the man known as Vincent Vercetti for a moment. He found it rather alarming that the guy could look at him withy bilious contempt, and the fact that he didn't speak made it all the more disquieting. At least Thomas Vercetti could defend himself with sarcastic remarks. Vince could just stare intensely. Ford too shifted uncomfortably under the cold gaze.  
  
"Um, well, well came to offer you a bit of a business proposal, Mr. Vercetti."  
  
**************************  
  
"Oh my, this is such a convivial occasion!" Vercetti dove for cover behind a nearby crate as a SWAT helicopter overhead fired rounds of submachine gun bullets at him. The slugs buried themselves deep into the wood as he reloaded his weapon. Fortunately, this particular helicopter pilot was inexperienced in close quarter maneuvering, and he had to pull up for more open sky before his blades came in contact with the looming building to the sides.  
  
Lance, who was standing on the lip of the roof, managed to give him a very odd look whilst avoiding being shot in the back. "What in the hell did you just say?!"  
  
Vercetti chuckled a little and shouted over the gunfire. "Convivial! It means lively, festive, sociable. I was being sarcastic, of course." He couched down and took a Ruger assault rifle from a recently deceased SWAT team member who had landed on the roof in the wrong place at the wrong time and had met with the barrel of Vercetti's Colt Python. Vercetti aimed the gun up and started to fire at the rotating cylinder of the helicopter's blades. A moment later, the copter exploded with a deafening roar.  
  
Lance made a disgusted noise and dodged falling pieces from the destroyed craft as they fell to earth. "Tommy man, did you swallow a dictionary while I wasn't looking or something?" He slung the AK-47 over his shoulder by its leather strap and pulled out an Uzi to start picking off people directly below him. The police had come for them first, and as the gang annihilated them, they eventually decided it would be best to call in some reinforcements. Their backup turned out to be numerous SWAT teams that seemed to flood out of nowhere.  
  
"Could be," Vercetti called casually, taking down another helicopter with his new rifle from his protected position behind the roof's access door. "Bang, bang," he muttered, looking through the scope.  
  
Lance jumped up from his spot on the ledge of the roof. "Yes! Scratch two police cars!" He released the magazine from his gun and let it clatter to the ground as he replaced it. He turned around, grinning about his success, and then stopped short, eyes wide.  
  
Somehow, a SWAT team member had managed to repel from a helicopter and land on the roof without Vercetti noticing. It wasn't really that hard. Vercetti was caught up in spraying the entire area with bullets. It's hard to hear over noise like that. The SWAT man had gotten behind Vercetti and grabbed him, pinning him against the wall next to the roof door in such a way that Vercetti had no way to reach his weapons.  
  
"Tommy!" Lance aimed his Uzi at the SWAT man, preparing to take his life to save that of his friend's. Then he halted, realizing that Vercetti as shaking his head wildly, trying unsuccessfully to gesture with his hands, which, Lance noticed, were covered in blood. He was trying to tell Lance not to shoot. Odd.  
  
Lance slowly lowered the gun, and the SWAT man gave him a long, hard look. He then pulled Vercetti away from the wall and through the roof's access door. Lance followed them in the stairwell, completely bewildered. Once they were in the safety of the building, the SWAT man leaned Vercetti against the wall near the railing. Lance looked around him and saw that Vercetti's shirt was saturated in blood, and the stain was growing. It was the result of a long knife gash across his chest. The SWAT man was busy putting away a bloodied bowie knife.  
  
Lance looked completely appalled. He took a swift step forward and poked the SWAT man in the chest. "What in the hell did you do to him?!"  
  
"Take it easy, Lance," Vercetti managed to say between staggered breaths. "It's just a surface wound, nothing permanent. It's just a lot of blood. It looks a lot worse than it really is." Vercetti turned at looked at the SWAT stranger, his eyes narrowing in silent observation.  
  
"Would you please explain to me what the hell is going on?" Lance was very confused. The events didn't add up. First of all, Vercetti didn't seem to think that this mysterious man in SWAT garb was any threat, but then again, this guy had sliced Vercetti up for no reason -- other than the fact that he was a wanted felon. So, what was it that Lance had missed? He was usually pretty good about seeing things, and he didn't normally let things slip past him, but this had him at a loss.  
  
Vercetti winced and then coughed lightly, moving his hands up weakly in a way of introduction. "All right, Lance. I'd like you to meet my brother; Vincent. He's the one that's been tearing Liberty City to pieces and feeding it to the dogs. I can't guarantee you'll really want to know him though, or vice versa."  
  
Lance's jaw dropped. "Excuse me?! Did you just say this guy is your brother?! I didn't even know you had a brother! Hell, I never had you pegged as a man to have any kind of family left at all!"  
  
Vercetti shrugged. "Well, that just goes to show you that you should never make hasty judgments about people. They are almost always wrong."  
  
The SWAT man removed his helmet, running a gloved hand through his damp brown hair. His gaze was fixed on Lance. They stared at each other up until the point that Lance was starting to feel slightly disturbed. He cleared his throat.  
  
"Well, okay, fine, but what's up with the whole slicing and dicing of my man Tommy?" He recaptured his composure, looking Vince in the face, challenging him. Vercetti watched them, suddenly reminded of two wolves fighting over leadership of the pack. He frowned. What an odd image.  
  
Vince simply shrugged.  
  
"What the fuck kind of answer is that?!" This man was beginning to piss Lance off in the worst of ways. Lance was not a very friendly person when he was pissed off either. He was known to act extremely irrationally.  
  
"He had to make sure that I wouldn't shoot him on sight. He needed to get the drop on me so he could assure me that he was not actually part of the police force," Vercetti answered, voicing out on behalf of his silent brother. Lanced looked like he was about to go mad with anger and frustration, and Vercetti didn't quite understand that. What was wrong with him? What was making him so angry?  
  
"By slicing you open? What if you had moved forward or something, or struggled? What if he had plunged that big hunting knife of his so deep into you that your intestines sprayed out all over the roof?" Lance was talking a little too loudly and Vercetti motioned for him to keep his voice down.  
  
Vince was making a face, disgusted by what Lance had said, and he visualized it in his head. He shuddered a little. Sure, he had seen people die before, but he was pretty sure he had never seen someone's intestines fall out. That was something he was going to have to avoid.  
  
"No better way. I would have shot him before he could do any explaining. Not that Vincent talks much anyway. For that matter, he probably would have been dead before he even had a chance to have my full attention," Vercetti mused. "I don't blame him for what he did. It was a real attention getter. Like a good movie trailer."  
  
"How do we know he's not really part of the police force, and this is all a trap?" Lance wanted to know.  
  
"He is part of the police force," Vecetti answered solemnly.  
  
"What?" That caught Lance's attention, and he wasn't sure if he had heard correctly.  
  
"That prick FBI guy from last night hired him to come here and kill me, or something similar."  
  
"But then---"  
  
"Listen, Lance," Vercetti said, cutting him off before he could speak anymore. "Let's just get out of here. I'll explain everything later. Vince can take us out through the front door, past all the SWAT teams out there. We just have to play the defeated warriors for now, understand?"  
  
**************************  
  
"Here they come," Graydon Creed announced, nodding to the gaping entrance of Kaufman Cabs. The gunfire with the criminals on the roof had ceased a good five minutes ago, and everyone had come to the conclusion that their newly acquired weapon was doing his job. On the street, everything had fallen relatively quiet. Patrick Ford glanced up at the doorway as Lance Vance exited, his hands up in the air in the classic posture of surrender.  
  
Vercetti walked out next to him, looking a little worse for wear. Behind them came Vince, the visor on his black protective helmet pushed up so that it was easier for him to see. Ford noticed that Vercetti's hands were cuffed securely in front of him. The agent took great pleasure in seeing that the strange New Yorker had opted to be better safe than sorry. Vince pushed the hand gun he had to keep Lance moving harder into the ailing criminal's back. Lance growled his protest lowly.  
  
Ford moved forward to meet the trio just as they stepped off the sidewalk and into the street where dozens of parked police enforcement vehicles stood idly waiting, their engines running. "I don't know how you did it, kid, but you took down the criminal threat. You have certainly held up your end of the deal. This country thanks you, boy," he proclaimed merrily. He held out a hand for a handshake as Vercetti and Lance were led away. Vince slid his gun back into his side holster.  
  
Vince looked at Ford's offered hand, and then back at Ford himself. He then shook hands with the overjoyed federal agent, albeit a little hesitantly. The handshake was brief, as Vince quick drew away, not wanting to be companions with his man for very much longer. This man made him very uncomfortable. He turned and began to walk away. As he did so, he lowered the visor on his helmet.  
  
"Of course," came a voice from behind him as the SWAT director appeared behind Ford, "we can't allow you to keep the equipment you used."  
  
Vince stopped short, in mid-stride. He stood straight and crossed his arms across his chest, shaking his head slowly. The barrel of the gun he had somehow gotten back into his hand without anyone seeing, stuck out from just under his arm, pointing backwards. Not even bothering to aim properly, not wanting to risk turning around, he pulled the trigger and shot the SWAT director squarely in the chest. It didn't kill the man, for he wore a rather expensive and effective bulletproof vest, but Vince had only been counting on the moment of stunned panic that he knew had to be coming as the director fell stumbled backwards due to the force of the impact.  
  
Without further delay, he tossed the hand gun aside and pulled the M4 that had been strapped to his back out and dropped to one knee. He checked the scope and began to fire at the car behind Ford and the fallen director. The kickback on the gun was strong, and he had to struggled to keep it steady. Shortly, after a few rounds, the running engine of the police cruiser exploded, knocking everyone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby clear off their feet. Vince quickly repeated the process and in no time, two more cars had blown, taking with them the lives of people standing by or running to escape. Vince shouldered his gun and took off into the mass of SWAT members who were scrambling around unsure of what was going on. It was impossible to tell the difference between the criminal and the rest of the SWAT men.  
  
Vince made his way to the armored securi-van that Vercetti and Lance had been loaded into and climbed hastily into the driver's seat. He hotwired the engine in record time and floored the car. It sped away before anyone could organize themselves long enough to stop it.  
  
Once on the bridge heading towards Leaf Links Golf Course, Vince removed his SWAT helmet and heaved a sigh of relief. He then dug into his pocket, keeping on hand on the wheel and his eyes trained forward, and retrieved a small generic key. He tossed it behind him over the back of his seat and through the wire grating that separated the front from the back. Maria caught the handcuff key effortlessly and passed it over to Lance, who undid the cuffs one of the SWAT men had put on him, and then he passed it on. It had to go around the entire van. Maria had relocated herself from the front seat of a police car to the securi-van as soon as she heard Vince's gunfire. Already inside were four people, Ken Rosenberg, Mercedes Cortez, Lance Vance, and Tommy Vercetti. After a quick introduction, she had climbed in and pulled the door shut.  
  
"You okay, babe?" Maria now asked through the wired window. She watched Vince shrug and then nod. He pulled up the back door of the Malibu Club, one of the many other places of interest Vercetti had seized, and dropped his five passengers off. Then he went to destroy the securi-van. He returned twenty minutes later a bit bloodied and wearing a black leather jacket and cargo pants, having dropped his SWAT uniform off a bridge somewhere along with the van. He climbed the stairs to the back door and followed the stairs inside up to the main office and through the hidden door to the concealed room behind the desk. Lance looked up as he entered.  
  
"You had that all planned out, didn't you."  
  
Vince nodded.  
  
"So you're on our side now, right?"  
  
Vince shrugged. 


	4. Messing with the Man

"That son of a bitch! That fucking asshole! That little piece of shit!" Patrick Ford sat on the steel bench just inside the back of a Vice City ambulance, shouting profanities, much to the annoyance to the poor sap of an EMT who was working hurriedly to close a large cut above Ford's eye. The now enraged agent had been struck down by a large piece of wreckage as one of the police cruisers blew into oblivion. He couldn't remember anything after that. He assumed he had completely blacked out. But he did remember exactly what had occurred before the explosions began, and that, made him very, very angry.  
  
"Sir, please, I need you to hold still so I can finish this," the EMT said, irritation seeping into his voice. He steadied Ford's head and carefully pulled the rift back together with a few strategically placed butterfly bandages. With that done, he released Ford and sat back a little, examining his work to makes sure that he had not missed anything blaringly important.  
  
"Who's an asshole, a son of a bitch, a piece of shit," Creed asked from his position leaning on the side of the ambulance. He was out of Ford's line of vision, his arms folded across his chest. He had shed his suit jacket as soon as it had caught fire due to Vince's fabulous pyrotechnics. He stood in his shirttails, looking weary, his tie skewed. His shoulder hostlers crossed his back in a large leather "X." Not many people can wear guns like he did. They always looked so natural, as if they belonged. "Vercetti or Vercetti?"  
  
He said it almost like a joke, chuckling softly to himself. Ford's eyes darkened, and he scowled. "Both of them goddamn it," he roared loudly, knocking the EMT's hand away from his face. "Get the hell away from me!" He jumped from the back of ambulance, stumbling some as he hit the ground. Ah, what good were concussions? No good at all. "What could have ever possessed me to trust a Vercetti? You can never, ever trust a Vercetti." He fell back into the sitting position on the edge of the ambulance's floor.  
  
"Well, the file said that the younger of the two had a huge grudge against the other. They had a squabble over something or other years ago. It was not exactly illogical to think that maybe we could use Vince as a weapon. He seemed willing to help back in New York, especially after we told him it would eliminate some of his criminal record," Creed said, sorting out things in his head thoughtfully. "I guess it was all a revenge thing coming through. I'm also guessing that Vincent is the only man alive that can take on Thomas without doubling his weight in lead. I wonder what changed, because it could have worked."  
  
Ford made a face. "You shouldn't have to wonder about assholes," he said in a low voice. "They're assholes. They don't need reasons to be assholes. They just are!" His face was flushed a violent red due to his anger, and the EMT, who was watching from a small distance away had to battle laughter after getting the strange mental image of the federal agent's head exploding.  
  
"Hey," Creed snapped sharply, "calm the hell down, Pat. That's not going to help anything. The only thing rage like that will get you is a heart attack. You don't want other one of those do you?" Ford had suffered heart problems late last year, landing himself in the hospital three times.  
  
Ford seethed, but he remained quiet. Creed continued. "So, the plan didn't work out. There's no need to blow up. All we need to do is figure something new out. Maybe we should take the conventional route and ask for information of the streets instead of hiring a deeply disturbed, gang- running, New Yorker psychopath to ---"  
  
"Shut up, Gray," Ford growled, cutting his partner off in mid-sentence.  
  
"Okay," Creed said slowly, drawing the syllable out unnecessarily. There was a long moment of silence. Well, not silence, but there was a lack of dialogue. Sirens screamed all over the streets, audible from even the most distant parts of the city as rescue workers scurried about trying to put out fires and save dying lives. Creed rubbed the back of his neck. "Can I make a suggestion here?" He peered around the corner of the ambulance to look at Ford, who was busy sulking.  
  
"What." Ford said the world dully, not meeting Creed's gaze. Creed returned to his previous position, turning his eyes skyward. It seemed strange to him that the sky could remain so blue and still, even with thick black smoke from the chaos below billowing into its face.  
  
"Let's go speak with Kent Paul. He's that stupid guy that hangs around in bars and recording studios all the time. I've heard he's done some particular business with Thomas Vercetti before, not to mention the fact that he has his nose in damn near everyone's business around here. I'm sure if we got him to talk he could tell us of a few place Vincent might have taken our man," he said.  
  
"Who is this now?" Ford's interest sparked, and he snapped out of his gloominess long enough to gather more information. He looked at Creed by leaning forward where he sat so he could see the side of the ambulance.  
  
"Paul comma Kent," Creed said almost proudly. "He's the manager of the rock band Love Fist." It came out like a question, with the traditional lift at the end, but it's intent was not one of inquiry. It was stated like that as a way of belittling the person on the other side of the conversation. After all, who didn't know everything about Love Fist? Kent Paul naturally came along with that knowledge.  
  
Ford rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. How did you know he did stuff with Vercetti?" That's something Ford didn't think he could ever miss. He had been studying Vercetti for nearly a year now. He knew everything about him, everything from the Forelli gang, to prison, to Vice City. Something like that shouldn't have been able to worm its way through his fingers.  
  
"I looked it up," Creed said tersely.  
  
"What? When did you do that?"  
  
"I did it as soon as the AD gave us the Vercetti case."  
  
"Well, why didn't you tell me that a long time ago?"  
  
"You never asked."  
  
**********************  
  
Tommy Vercetti could not remember falling asleep, but apparently he had, because he woke up. The room swam before his eyes for a moment before clearing itself up. He took in his surroundings. He was laying across a dark blue couch next to a door in a dark room. The only light was a single suspended lamp above a small, round table in the corner of the space. He recognized the area as the room he had built behind the Malibu's main office. He had knocked out a few walls, making sure he always had a place to go if the police were ever on his tail. He assumed it had been a rather good decision. The doorway was in the wall just behind the office's desk, virtually invisible to the untrained eye.  
  
Vercetti looked around the room, squinting through the murky darkness. He could see that the entire party from before had made it into the Malibu's secret compartment. There was a television in the far corner, and Mercedes and Maria were seated in front of it, their heads tilted in toward each other, whispering. Vercetti raised an eyebrow. He had a theory that all women in the entire world, not matter how close-minded they thought they were, would inevitably fall into a pit of gossip sometime in their lives. He shook his head, smiling to himself silently.  
  
Vince, Rosenberg, and Lance were sitting around the card table where the light was, playing poker with a deck of cards Vince always seemed to have in his pocket. They were using cash instead of chips, and that's the way Vince liked it because he had always thought playing with chips was a stupid idea anyway. Didn't wasn't money the exact same thing? Why not cut out the middle man? Vince was leaned back in his chair, looking at his five cards intently, occasionally glancing up to look at the table, where over five hundred dollars had accumulated in a haphazard pile. He had won the last few hands, and Lance had grumbled angrily about mopping floors and cheating.  
  
Vercetti sat up, realizing that he was lacking his shirt. His upper body was wrapped in a white bandages, covering Vince's inflicted knife wound. Vercetti nodded to himself. He remembered Mercedes doing that before he evidently lost all consciousness. He searched the immediate area for his shirt. Someone had a clean, intact one sitting neatly folded one waiting for him on the arm of the couch. He slipped it on, but it remained unbuttoned as he stood up.  
  
"Hey Tommy," Lance said, not looking up from the fan of cards he held as Vercetti approached the card table. "We weren't sure if you were ever going to wake up. You've been asleep for the past three hours." Vercetti shrugged and went about the task of fastening his shirt.  
  
Rosenberg suddenly let out an annoyed snort and threw his cards down on the table violently. Vince started and rocked his chair forward so that all four legs were resting firmly on the ground. He looked at Rosenberg suspiciously before returning his eyes to his hand. "  
  
"I give up," Rosenberg proclaimed a little too loudly. He gestured to Vince. "This man has too good of a poker face. I can't tell up from down! He could tell me the sky was falling at I would believe him because he looks so damn serious!"  
  
Lance chuckled. "Well Chicken Little, I'm pretty sure with all the shit you're on right now, you'd believe that the sky was falling anyway," he said with a wan smile.  
  
Rosenberg gave him the finger while Vercetti nodded. "Yeah, I know," he said. "He used to piss the hell out of my like that when we played as kids. I admit. He's pretty good." He placed a hand on Vince's shoulder and Vince immediately shrugged it off. He leaned forward and tossed a hundred dollar bill into the pile of money.  
  
"Can I speak with you, Vincent?" Vercetti clasped his hands behind his back, moving away from the table, expecting his brother to follow him. Vince looked at his cards. Then he shrugged and spread them out on the table before him, face up. It was a royal flush, all in the suit of clubs. Lance nearly jumped onto the table, his eyes bulging in absolute disbelief.  
  
"You have got to have an ace up your sleeve," he cried, stunned and then suddenly angry. He leaned over the table, dropping his own cards. "You're cheating."  
  
Vince raised his eyebrows at the accusation and then pointed at his cards, holding up his hands innocently. He made a show of shaking out his sleeves. Nope, he seemed to say, no cards up there. He smiled a little, shaking his head. He got to his feet and gathered the money into a neat pile, folded it once, and pocketed it. He mock saluted Rosenberg and Lance. He turned and followed Vercetti away from the table, leaving to them to recover.  
  
Vercetti turned around to face Vince as soon as he was sure that they were out of direct earshot of any of the others. "I want to know your motives," he said forcefully. "Why the hell did you help me back there when you could have just as easily slit my throat?" He expression was grave, not the usual easy-going visage that usually fit his bill nicely. It was easy to mistake the seriousness for anger, but Vince knew Vercetti well enough to know that's not what it was.  
  
Vince tilted his head, his eyes narrowing a bit, in inquiry. Wasn't it a good thing that he hadn't slit Vercetti's throat? He supposed the question was justified, because the last time the they had seen each other they had parted with bullets flying between them. The hatred had been thick back then. It still was. But Vince liked to think he had honor, and he didn't want to be working for the police if he didn't have to. That was no fun at all. He simply shrugged.  
  
"I want to make sure you're aren't going to turn around and stab me in the back. We aren't on the best of terms you know. You know how I feel about traitors, and so help me Vince, if you're setting me up, I'll kill you," Vercetti said darkly, taking a small step forward.  
  
Rage flashed across Vince's dark eyes. He hands formed tight fists at his sides. Now Vercetti was angry, and his threat made Vince angry as well. He stepped forward, so close to Vercetti that their noses were practically touching. He jabbed him in the chest and then pointed to himself. He stepped back and made a slashing motion with hand, cutting through the air. Then he turned around with a hard shake of his head and stood there, back facing Vercetti.  
  
Vercetti resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Why did Vince have to be so melodramatic about everything? He sighed, exasperated. "Look kid, I didn't call you a traitor. I'm just imploring you not to become one," he said in way of an explanation. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.  
  
Vince whirled around without warning, drawing his Colt .45 in the same movement. He pushed Vercetti back against the wall angrily, his eyes flashing with some unknown emotion. Vercetti taken completely by surprise, nearly toppled over. Vince shook his head from side to side, holding the gun' barrel against his stunned brother's chest.  
  
"Listen," Vercetti growled, regaining his composure. He paid no mind to the gun so near his heart. "If you refuse to speak, I don't know what the fuck you are trying to say!"  
  
All heads in the room snapped around at the sound of the disturbance. Maria, who was now peering at the pair from over the back over her overstuffed armchair in front of the television, figured her expertise would be useful right about then. "He says you have no right to talk about traitors," she said. "He's telling you to shut your mouth before he does it for you. And he will Tommy. He'll silence you forever."  
  
"How the hell do you know that," Lance demanded to know.  
  
Maria looked at him. "You live with a guy for a long enough, and it's a trait you pick up. You just know," she replied. Vince shifted behind her, cocking back the hammer on the gun. His eyes became unreadable. His hand was shaking. Vercetti looked at the barrel of the gun a little nervously.  
  
"But the guy doesn't talk," Lance countered, his voice raising in a crescendo.  
  
"So, what the fuck does that have to do with anything?"  
  
"So how the hell do you know ANYTHING about the guy? I'm surprised you even know his name!"  
  
"Shut the hell up, all of you!" Vercetti reentered the conversation roughly, still looking at the shaking gun barrel. Vince was looking at it too. Vercetti watched him for a moment. "What do you mean I 'don't have the right to talk about traitors,' Vince?"  
  
Vince pulled the gun away from Vercetti, releasing the hammer slowly. He turned away, slipping the weapon back into his jacket pocket as if to say never mind. Vercetti caught his sleeve, turning him around again. "Wait. Answer me, Vincent."  
  
Vince broke his brother's grip and straightened his jacket, moving away, backward to the card table. He stood there for a moment, shaking with suppressed anger. He clenched his firsts, a scowl taking over his features. After a moment he pushed his way out the door and slammed it behind him. There were a few moments of motionless silence. Maria frowned, listening to it hang there before getting up and following Vince out of the room. She found him sitting at the bar in the main club, sitting on a stool, listlessly spinning a shot glass around in circles on the bar's surface. She sat down next to him.  
  
"What do you want to do now?" She had to shout to be heard over the pulsing club music.  
  
He made the shape of a gun with his thumb and forefinger and pretended to shoot himself in the head. He looked at her sullenly before leaning forward and tapping the bartender on the shoulder. The man turned around and filled up Vince's shot glass with whiskey. Vince downed the drink and shook his head. 


	5. Offense and Defense

Kent Paul was feeling pretty damn good. And why shouldn't he? His blood alcohol level was probably through the roof, and he was still sipping out a bottle vodka in intervals. He sat at the mixer board in front of a large glass window that protected the tiny sound booth beyond it. He was tilted back in his pseudo-wool computer chair, testing its spring to the limit. His feet were casually propped up on the board, the sliders moving ever so slightly as his moved to grab the liquor bottle again. The control remained strangely steady, even with the extra disturbance.  
  
Paul smiled, watching Jezz, the Scottish lead singer of the band Love Fist, shout rhythmically into a microphone behind the wide windowpane of the sound booth. Jezz's voice was momentarily drowned out by the hard core beat of the music, and Paul put his vodka bottle back on the floor, reaching over to turn the background noise down. Jezz continued to "sing," unaware that he had ever been cut off. Love Fist was huge in the music industry now, even if they were just a bunch of "Scottish bisexuals," as Vercetti had once called them, and they were still climbing steadily in the ranks. Paul, as the man who was seen with them at all points of the day whether they wanted him there or not, was beginning to look good as well, if only in reputation.  
  
Paul toppled backwards out of his seat, taking the chair with him, as the studio door slammed open behind him. The Jezz's music ceased, and the rest of the band members, who were sprawled out on the couches situated near the entrance to the room, started as well. The door hit the wall with a loud, resonate bang. Paul picked himself off the floor, stumbling back as the floor spun beneath him due to his alcohol intake. He hauled the chair back into the upright position and looked around slowly, searching for the source of the rather rude disturbance.  
  
"Kent Paul," a man in a dark gray suit with a deep green tie stood in the door way. He stepped into the room and was followed by another man in nearly the same attire, however this man's tie was maroon. They looked professional, albeit a little roughed up. One of them had a bandage taped over one eye. Paul sized them up carefully, noticing that the second man looked beyond surly. He frowned.  
  
"Yeah, what can I do for you boys," Paul asked, smiling stupidly, listening to his voice slur to a almost recognizable point with a combination between the alcohol and his thick English accent.  
  
The two men flashed FBI identification badges at him, their movement practiced and nearly exactly together. Paul's smile faded as he watched him. How did they do that? That was a little creepy. Maybe he could get these fine gentlemen to teach him that trick. He was always looking for new ways to impress the ladies. And there were always plenty of ladies to be impressed.  
  
"We need information from you concerning a man by the name of Thomas Vercetti," the man with the bandage over his eye said. For an alarming moment, Paul forgot that he had seen the FBI badges offered by these two men, and he had a sinking feeling, believing that they were from the Mafia or some such nonsense. He took a tiny step backward, and that was enough to sit him back down in his chair. The last thing he ever wanted was some huge organized crime syndicate on his ass. Vercetti breathing down his neck all the time was just about all of that kind of thing he could take. Then he shook his head, remembering that the two men in front of him weren't crime lords, they were federal agents. Oh great. Even better. Not.  
  
"What makes you boys think I would know anything about a guy named Thomas Vercetti? Ya know, just because I know some stuff about this town, people are always running up to me expecting me to rip out some giant secret," Paul said, agitation seeping into his voice.  
  
Ford raised an eyebrow. "Just because you're drunk off your ass, Paul, doesn't mean we're going to tolerate you pretending you have no idea what we are talking about," he said.  
  
"The Federal Bureau of Investigation's computers rarely lie, Mister Paul," Creed added blandly. He looked around the studio. Jezz was peering out of the sound booth, watching them through unnaturally black eyes. The other band members were all sitting up on the couches, attempting unsuccessfully to hide the series of drugs that they had had all spread out on the table before the agents had made their startling entrance. Creed narrowed his eyes, but he said nothing.  
  
"Well, maybe they did just this one time," Paul was saying to Ford defiantly, "because I don't know anything, and for your information, I'm not drunk off my ass. I happen to be sitting on my ass right now."  
  
"Cute," Ford said with a false smile. "I advise you not to play stupid with us, Paul." Creed recognized Ford's tone as the same one he had used in the beginning of this whole mess with Vercetti when they had him at the top of the stairs in the Coke Baron's Mansion, unarmed. He knew the Paul did not have the resources to escape them like Vercetti had, but still, the tone was uncomfortable. Ford didn't seem notice.  
  
"I'm not," Paul insisted, his brow furrowing. One of the band members mumbled something and Ford turned his attention around, but the band member said nothing more, pretending he had never said anything the first place.  
  
"Did you say something," Creed asked.  
  
"Yeah," the band member muttered. "I said he's not playing stupid. He's always like that." He grinned. Paul looked at him, looking almost hurt for a moment before Ford whirled on him again. There was a stunned yelp as Ford grasped the front of Paul's shirt and pulled him forward out of the chair. Ford stepped back, taking Paul with him so that they remained face-to-face.  
  
Paul, scared into betrayal, began to babble. "Tommy's a big wig in this town, you know? He came down here some five months ago looking about twenty kilograms, right? And someone told him about me, so I helped him out a little, gave him a path to follow, you know? I swear it wasn't more than that! Then he starts buying up all the dying businesses on the islands, and now he's huge! I'll bet his biggest business is probably that old printing shop down in Little Haiti. Yeah. That's it! You want him, you could go there and check it out," he said without taking a breath. "Now put me down, please."  
  
Paul knew all of what he had said was not entirely true, at least not in his mind. The way he saw it, he had started Vercetti out in Vice City. Vercetti owed him a lot, but he didn't think Vercetti recognized that. Well, at least he hadn't seen it fit to kill Paul off, and he still let him hang around in the Malibu Club all the time, so Paul supposed it wasn't so bad.  
  
Ford put Paul down, smiling that false smile again, showing his teeth. "Thank you," he said. The he turned on his heel and practically marched out the door with Creed in tow. Creed paused to close to the door, shooting a suspicious glance at the band members "hiding" their drugs for a moment before following Ford out of the building.  
  
Paul dusted himself off. "Yeah, that's right, get out of here before I cause you more trouble than you can handle," he muttered to himself angrily. Then something very alarming hit him. "Oh shit, if Tommy finds that I ratted him out I'm a dead man! He'll kill me without even looking back! He'll walk in my blood!" His eyes grew very large in horror as he imagined his own death.  
  
Jezz walked out of the booth, picking up Paul's bottle of vodka and taking a long swig. "Good luck with that, Paul old buddy. I'm glad I'm not the one Tommy's going to be mad at," he chuckled. The other band members nodded their agreement, their faces painted with comically huge smiles.  
  
Outside, Creed and Ford climbed into their black bureau car. Creed started the engine as Ford buckled his seat belt and pulled his door closed. He situated himself in the seat and turned around to monitor his blind spots as he backed up and them moved forward again to escape from where he had parallel parked outside the recording studio. "Well," he commented sarcastically, "that went well."  
  
Ford shrugged. "Hey, we got the information didn't we? It's no skin off my nose if Kent Paul pisses his pants. Man, that guy reeked of booze. How can he a guy so little drink so much?" He peered out the window, watching the car behind them to make sure Creed wasn't doing to make more problems for them to deal with. Creed pulled out onto the street without hitting anything. "Let's just go to Little Haiti," Ford said. "Maybe we can pick up some tracks there, if God wills."  
  
*****************************  
  
The print shop Kent Paul had spoken about happened to be Print Works, a huge warehouse situated in such a way that it was easy to pass it without noticing. Creed did so. When Ford pointed it out, he grumbled something and turned the car around. They pulled into the large, empty parking lot outside the shop and Creed turned off the car. It must have been his law enforcer's instincts, because he parked the car perfectly in between two of the white lines in the lot, because it didn't really matter. There were not other cars in the place anyway. He could have parked backwards and diagonal if he had wanted to.  
  
The two agents got out the car, straightening their jackets and closing their doors all in the same fluid movement. Ford pulled at the knot in his tie for a moment, looking around the abandoned lot. Creed shielded his eyes with his hand and looked against the sun at a sign that was protruding out of the building's roof. It was a huge rectangle piece of sheet metal that said "Print Works" on it, only the "Print" in the name had been crossed out with red spray paint and replaced with "Vercetti." Well, wasn't that just a kick in the teeth. Ford wondered how America's wonderful legal system had missed Vercetti's presence here of all other places in the world. Creed shoved his hands into his pockets and followed Ford has he walked forward, pulling the blue metal door that allowed entrance into the building. The shop, though it looked like it was various different rooms from the outside, was actually one big room full of fax machines, printing presses, copiers, and stacks upon stacks up stacks of paper. Upon their arrival inside, the door swung shut behind them with a loud bang. Ford sucked in a deep breath, for reason unknown, suddenly worried that someone would hear them. Not that they didn't want someone to hear them, but oh well.  
  
A man looked up from what he was doing as they came in, his eyes narrowing. He made his way around on of the monstrous, cumbersome piles of paper and straightened his brown vest. "Can I help you fellas," he asked, grabbing a rag off the top of one of the copiers as he moved. He wiped his hands on it, however, it was strange to think that it could have cleaned his hands in any way due to the fact that it was blotted generously with black ink. He tossed it aside.  
  
"Nice establishment you have here," Creed commented, but he didn't look around. He and Ford showed the man their badges in that way they had of doing so precisely together. The man raised an eyebrow. Then they put the identifications wallets back into their pockets.  
  
"We need to ask you some questions, ah, Mister," Ford trailed off, once again prompting someone to complete his sentence with his or her name. Unlike Creed, Ford took the time to look around the shop, noticing that several of the printing presses were running green paper that look suspiciously like money.  
  
The print shop employee (it looked as if he was the only one) looked at them, eying them up and down dubiously. He noticed Ford looking at the printing presses, but he said nothing and made no move to block the view of them in any way. That would make him look rather suspicious, wouldn't it?  
  
"Kelly," he said, "Simon T. Look, I know my rights, and you can't just walk up in here and start spouting off questions for me to answer without some kind of probable cause." The words were started bitterly as he looked at them from under a green visor and from behind triple thick glasses. He tugged at his vest again.  
  
"Ah, but we do have reason, Mister Kelly," Creed assured him with a cold grin. "We are here following a lead as to the whereabouts of a wanted killer known as Thomas J. Vercetti."  
  
Kelly smiled back at Creed, equally as coldly. Of course he knew Vercetti. After all, he was the man that owned this place. He had come in some time ago, smiling a little whimsically as he surveyed the printing machines. He had told Kelly about his father and had asked about maybe printing a magazine or something. Kelly had suggested something a little more profitable, hence the green papers on the machines now. Vercetti had gathered up all they had needed and the business began. It was running well now. Kelly admired Vercetti to an infinite extent. He didn't, of course, tell Creed and Ford about that.  
  
"Vercetti, huh," he said pretending to think about it. "I know of him, but I don't know him personally."  
  
Creed moved his hand up into the air, motioning toward the roof of the establishment. "Your sign says 'Vercetti' works," he pointed out placidly.  
  
"So? That don't mean nothing, Mister FBI. Just because the sign says something doesn't mean I know everything all of a sudden. If you hadn't noticed, the sign isn't exactly professionally etched. We have a lot of vandals around here," Kelly countered coolly.  
  
"Thomas Vercetti ain't no vandal!," Ford said forcefully, and a little too loudly. His concept of grammar also seemed to fly out the window. "He's wanted for drug trafficking, weapon possession, property damage, grand theft auto, and bank robbery, not to mention the hundred and fifty accounts of indirect and direct murder with malicious intent that are tacked onto his name." Kelly didn't even blink. He continued to gaze at the agents calmly. "Are you sure you should be telling me that? I mean, that seems like something that should say within your little bureau circle. I don't even know the guy, and all that information is pretty personal. It has nothing to do with me," he said.  
  
"You said that you didn't know him 'personally'," Creed said, finding another hole in Kelly's story.  
  
"Yeah, I did," Kelly replied. "But everyone knows who Tommy 'the Butcher' Vercetti is. At least they do around here, because if they don't, they're in for some real trouble when he comes walking down their streets in the middle of the night. People should always be aware of the dangers life presents them with."  
  
Ford was about to say something when Kelly began to pull away and walk the other direction, picking up a hefty stack of paper as he headed toward the office at the very back of the compound. "Now," he said. "If you boys will excuse me, I have work to do."  
  
"We need to get this guy off the streets, Mister Kelly," Ford stated.  
  
Kelly shrugged. "Sounds like a personal problem to me."  
  
Creed cleared his throat. "We know all about Vercetti owning this complex, Mister Kelly, or are you going to tell me that you've worked here for as long as you have, but you have never met him? Come now, we know that you're lying."  
  
This time, Kelly stopped short and he looked down.  
  
"So talk to us, Mister Kelly, please," Ford said with a wan smile.  
  
***************************  
  
Vincent Vercetti was bored. He was sitting on the couch next to Mercedes in front of the television in the back room of the Malibu Club, shuffling and reshuffling a deck of cards. Half the deck was spread out in front of him in a slightly chaotic game of solitaire. The other half flipped between his hands expertly, never once falling to the ground. Vince's mind was not on the cards though; it was far away on a distant plane, thinking and working for itself. On the television screen, a politician babbled about taxes and the country's revenue. No one was listening.  
  
Vercetti, Lance, and Rosenberg sat around the card table, examining their respective hands of five cards. The jackpot in the center of the table had reached nearly a thousand dollars, making the stakes on the game extremely high. Rosenberg wiped sweat away from his brow, glancing nervously at his wallet, which was now strangely empty. Vercetti was hunched over the edge of the table, looking at his cards seriously, as if he expected them to jump out of his hands and dance around on the table.  
  
Suddenly, a phone rang. Vercetti started as the shrill ring shattered the tense silence like beautiful pieces of iridescent glass. Lance looked at Vercetti, as did Rosenberg, Maria, and Mercedes. The only one who didn't seem at all phased was Vince, who continued to stare off into space, the cards flashing between his hands quickly. The phone rang again, sounding impatient. Vercetti dropped his cards down onto the table face down and moved so that he could access his front pocket. He fished around for a moment before pulling his cell phone out right as it rang again. He turned it on and put it up to his ear.  
  
"Speak," he said tersely. He didn't much like phones. He thought they were impersonal and trivial, but at least they made it so he didn't have to run around like a buffoon trying to meet everyone he had to face-to-face. That would be a pain, considering Vercetti had many important acquaintances. Plus, if he didn't have his phone, how would have met Lance in the alley where he beat up that chef to get it in the first place? No doubt Lance would have found him somehow in some other way, but Vercetti liked to think that meeting Lance there helped him launch part of his career in Vice City. He wasn't sure how, but then again, he never did.  
  
"Tommy! It's me Paulo. Tom! Thank God you're still alive," Kent Paul's voice screeched out of the earpiece, forcing Vercetti to pull the device away from his ear to avoid the immediate risk of going deaf. He made a face and rubbed at his ear, annoyed. He cautiously put the phone back to where he could hear the speaker.  
  
"What the hell are you talking about, Paul? Of course I'm alive. Why wouldn't I be," he asked, making sure to incorporate the annoyance he felt into his voice so that Paul would be sure to hear it. Vercetti didn't like to be yelled at. He preferred speaking in normal tones. There was no point to screaming if the point could be conveyed without the risk of one loosing one's voice. He had to admit, however, that when he found himself losing his temper, he often raised his voice, but at least he didn't start straining his vocal chords when he became frantic. Kent Paul was obviously very panicked.  
  
"The Feds, Tom, you didn't hear? They stopped by here a little while ago looking for you, and I tried to tell them that I didn't know what they were talking about, but they grabbed me and I --"  
  
Vercetti raised one eyebrow, his countenance suddenly becoming slightly annoyed. "Paul, you didn't tell them where they could find me, did you," he asked in a carefully flat tone. He didn't want Paul to know that he was angry just yet, but oh was he ever. He clenched one fist and rapped on the edge of the table with his knuckles impatiently, listening to Paul's labored breathing on the other side of the line.  
  
"Well you see Tom, the thing with that was --"  
  
Vercetti cut him off by slamming the phone against the table with all the strength he could muster. He wasn't interested in hearing any more of Paul's story. That was entirely too time consuming. He was content to simply assume things and get things over with as quickly as possible. The phone, needless to say, disconnected after Vercetti's little bout of violence, and he looked at it for a moment before slipping it back into his pocket.  
  
He looked up to find everyone in the room staring at him, even Vince, who had snapped back into reality sometime between Vercetti answering the phone and Vercetti pounding the phone against the table. Vercetti chuckled sheepishly, releasing a long-winded sigh. Everyone continued to stare at him, waiting for an explanation for his sudden outburst. He waved his hand in the air.  
  
"I think we have to move base now," he said. "I know a music buff with a big mouth."  
  
Vince went back to staring blankly off into space, the cards slipping from his hand and scattering onto the floor. Mercedes looked at him for a moment before sighing and bending down to pick all the stray cards back up. Vince didn't take notice to her.  
  
The phone rang again and Vercetti raised his eyes skyward in annoyance before pulling the phone back out of his pocket and switching it on. "Paul, if this is you again, I swear to God, oh, Simon. What's up?"  
  
"They came by Print Works here, Tommy. I'm sure you can guess who I'm talking about; you're a smart kid. Look, I sent them over to you boatyard in the harbor. I'm sure those two boys over there will make them question heads and tails on the coin, but we can't keep them running around in circles forever, you know what I mean? Something needs to be done," Kelly's voice informed him.  
  
Vercetti's anger built up again. "Yeah, I understand, Simon. Thank you. I have it under control. I'll talk to you later," he said as calmly as he could through tightly gritted teeth. He knew the FBI agents that had been chasing them around since the night on the bridge were not idiots, not by a long shot. They would find the Malibu Club eventually, and when they did, Vercetti wanted to be long gone. He hung up the phone, not waiting for Kelly to finish speaking. He pushed the phone back into this pocket and rested his head on his elbow, trying to think. Sooner or later, the government would know about all of the Vercetti assets, and that was liable to put Vercetti into deep bankruptcy. His businesses would be ruined if his patrons found out that the Feds were on his ass. He sighed, rubbing at his sinuses.  
  
"We shouldn't run away from this anymore. This will get too big if we do," he grumbled. "I think it's time we take some action, you know? The 'good guys' have had the offensive thus far into the game, and I think it's time we took a few potshots back. It's time to switch sides. I'm tired of this."  
  
"Well, what do you suggest," asked Lance, who was still sitting across the table with his five cards fanned out in front of him. He wore a grin that rivaled that of the Cheshire Cat, so it was obvious that he felt he had a winning hand. That was big accomplishment, because since Vercetti had entered the game, Rosenberg and Lance hadn't even stood a chance.  
  
Vercetti thought for a moment, perusing Lance's features carefully, looking for anything that would call a bluff. "I'm not sure just yet, but I'm sure I'll think of something," he said. He picked up his cards again, shot a glance at Lance once more before opening his wallet and taking out two crisp bills. "I see your two-hundred from before me entourage of phone calls, and I raise you four thousand. He threw a thick roll of money into the center. Rosenberg's eyes grew very wide.  
  
"I fold," he stammered immediately. He wasn't about to deal with money like that.  
  
Lance scoffed. "Wuss," he muttered. He met the four thousand and called, perfectly sure that he was going to beat whatever Vercetti had in his hand with what he had in his. After all, that's what happened in the movies, wasn't it?  
  
"All right, let's see them," Vercetti said.  
  
Lance spread his cards out on the table quickly, smirking proudly. "Full house with Jacks and Queens, Tommy. Read them and weep."  
  
Vercetti sniffed. "Boo-hoo," he said flatly. "Little lesson in poker Lance. Never get into too much of a hurry. Take your time, and never let anyone rush you," he began to place his cards face up in front of him one at a time, making sure to go slowly to convey his point. "And never, ever show all your cards at once." The fifth card was at last shown, and Vercetti leaned over the table to collect the cash. "Straight flush." He grinned.  
  
"Goddamn it," Lance exclaimed, jumping up out of his chair in utter shock. "How the hell did you do that? What, is it written in Vercetti family scripture that you people always have to win?"  
  
"Could be," Vercetti said with a nonchalant shrug. "Anyway, Lance, I've figured out what we're going to do. It's time to go." 


	6. Moving Into Position

"Uh, hello? Is anyone here?" Creed ducked under a speed boat that was hanging lowly from one of the parallel metal bars that ran just under the wooden roof of the Vercetti owned boatyard, Folded Tactics. He gently ran a hand along its hull. The tiny boat yard was really not much to look at. It was just a small building, open in the back so that the sea breeze always wafted through it, surrounded by wire grated fences. It sat at the edge of the Vice City Docks, diminutive, inconspicuous and easy to pass up.  
  
Ford moved along the inside way, inspecting all the different things pinned on the walls as he made his way to the large back door. He paused for a moment to inspect the engine of the hanging boat before walking outside. He narrowed his eyes. No boats rested in the lapping water there so he turned around back toward the building and squinted against the sun. He was beginning to get the feeling that he and Creed were being sent all over Vice City on a wild goose chase, but at least with the information about Vercetti coming out in this manner, they had the chance to see what Vercetti was doing in the city, where he had been, and what kinds of things he was gaining money from. Not to mention what he was spending money on in the first place. It certainly explained why he was such a big gun in the city.  
  
A rustling above him caught Creed attention and he walked out from under the boat in order to look at the side of it. He turned around in time to see two teenage boys appear over the edge of the vehicle. Neither of them had let go of his seventeen year, that much was apparent. They were both similar in appearance, sporting brown hair and brown eyes. They also looked a little out of line. They were obviously not on the same plane of consciousness as the agents were. Creed ran a hand through his own sandy blond hair and raised an eyebrow.  
  
Ford joined him inside just he said, "Um, hello." How intelligent, do you start conversations often, Mister Creed? He shook his head, a slight frown creasing his face. He decided to make up for his lack of intellectual dialogue before Ford thought he was incompetent. "Do you run this establishment?"  
  
"No," one of the teens said with a drunken smile. "Jayson and me just hang around here, and sometimes, the dude lets us work on the boats and stuff. It's pretty cool. A lot cooler than school, you know?" His eyebrows jumped up and down and he suddenly looked very amused. "Boats."  
  
The one named Jayson shoved his friend, who was now laughing hysterically for some unknown reason, and he fell sideways into the boat, out of sight. Creed frowned. What in the world was going on? These certainly didn't look like the type of employees a top notch gangster would get to work in one of this asset buildings. Assets were extremely important, and these boys didn't even look like they knew how to buckle their belts correctly. What possible value could Vercetti have seen in them?  
  
Jayson leaned over the side of the boat, nearly toppling out of it. "Are you dudes looking for someone?"  
  
"We're looking for the man who owns this place," Ford said, clearly irritated. What an idiot, couldn't this guy have gotten stoned on his own time? Did he really have go out and smoke that shit when Ford had so many important questions that need to be answered? Ford blinked at the absurdity of the thought.  
  
"Hey," Jayson said, looking pensive. Well, as pensive as a boy in his line of mind could be without hurting himself. "Barry, has the dude been around lately?" He looked behind him into the open area of the speed boat, his eyes focusing and blearing at his friend who was still unseen to the agents.  
  
Barry reappeared, leaning against the edge of the boat. "Yeah, probably, but I won't really know. He's probably out doing some of that business he always says he has to do. I mean, a guy like that is always pretty busy," he slurred. He rubbed the back of his head and his eyes went out of focus for a moment.  
  
Creed raised an eyebrow. He wasn't sure that he and Ford were going to be able to extract any useful information from these two teens at all. They didn't look like they currently knew where they were themselves. How could they possibly know where Vercetti was? Creed and Ford didn't even know where the guy was, and they liked to think of themselves as particularly competent. "Thomas Vercetti owns this boat yard, does he not?"  
  
"Who," Jayson wanted to know, looking at the agents for what seemed like the first time. Christ, thought Ford, these people have the attention spans of white flies. He rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. Barry smiled again.  
  
"Who," he echoed. Jayson looked at him for a long moment before chuckling a little, mindlessly.  
  
"Dude," he observed. "I just said that."  
  
"Goddamnit," Ford exploded suddenly. He had had enough of this nonsense. "We're looking for the man who owns this stupid, good-for-nothing boat yard. The one you both happen to be sitting in right at this very moment. Do you understand?"  
  
"Oh," Barry said. He appeared to think about it. Suddenly his face brightened. "You mean 'Suit Man'," he exclaimed, clearly very excited. He was so excited in fact, that he lost what little balance he had and toppled over backwards into the lofted speed boat again.  
  
"What," Creed inquired. "Did you just say 'Suit Man'?" What was this? Some kind of joke? Please God, Creed thought, don't tell me Vercetti is wandering around the city calling himself "Suit Man" like he's some kind of deranged and opposite super hero. He was obviously not in the business of saving people. Proof of that had been mopped up from outside his mansion on Starfish Island. There were going to be quite a few funerals this weekend.  
  
"This dude," Jayson explained, holding his hands out in front of him like a picture frame, "comes in here to buy the old place wearing, get this, a pinstripe suit. It was real fashion statement like." He smiled and chuckled a little, amused by the anecdote. Ford merely raised his eyebrows.  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?"  
  
"Yeah," Barry said from his unseen perch, speaking as if he hadn't heard Ford speak at all. "He was a really nice guy. He's funny, likes to joke around and stuff." Creed nearly choked. Vercetti? Nice? That name and that word did not belong in the same document. What kind of drugs had these teenagers been taking? Were they delusional to the point that they didn't really know who they were talking about?  
  
"Do you know where I could find this 'Suit Man'," Ford asked through carefully clenched teeth. Creed could tell that he was more than a little peeved at the whole idea of Vercetti being nice, but he was glad to see that his partner was able to keep his explosive temper in check. Sort of.  
  
"You could try looking at the strip club down in Ocean Beach on the other island," Jayson replied with his voice heavy with sarcasm. Apparently, he was under the impression that everyone knew about Vercetti's involvement in some obscure strip club nestled far, far away. He sat back in the boat, leaning on the opposite side with his arms folded across his chest. His brown eyes hazed over again.  
  
"Yeah, we get calls here all the time from that place. They're always looking for him. 'Suit Man' I mean. He's probably a good customer there or something, or maybe he owns that place too. Who knows. That's all I know about him anyway. He's kind of shady like that. He reminds me of some guy from the movie Reservoir Dogs or something. You ever see that flick? Man, Mister Pink is the shit," Barry said with a wide smile.  
  
"I wish I were old enough to go to a strip club," Jayson muttered sotto voce.  
  
"Um, yes, well that's nice. Thank you for you assistance," Creed said, inching away from the boat toward the exit. "We'll be going now. You take care of yourselves, all right?"  
  
"Bye," Barry and Jayson cried in unison.  
  
"Give 'Suit Man' my greetings when you see him, dude," Barry added rather too loudly.  
  
"Yeah," Ford murmured as he followed Creed out the back door of the building. "I'll give him a greeting, right in his fucking face with a shotgun."  
  
*************************  
  
"Hey Junior, wait up a second."  
  
Vince turned around to face his brother as the ragtag little group of anarchists exited through the back door of the Malibu Club. He impatiently shifted the weight of the shotgun he held from one shoulder to the other. He was in no mood to speak with Vercetti (not that he ever was), and he hoped whatever it was that Vercetti wanted would be vocalized tersely. All he really wanted to do was get this whole thing over with and go back to New York where it was safe for a guy like him. In Liberty City there weren't cops on his ass all the time.  
  
Vercetti caught up with Vince, and they began walking again. Vince kept his gaze straight ahead as his brother shuffled along beside him. "All right Vince," Vercetti said, his eyes downcast. "I need to know you're with me on this. I can't afford to have you jumping back and forth across the line here. This is extremely important."  
  
Vince shrugged, still not looking at him.  
  
"That's not helping, kid. Please give me a straight answer. Tell me that you aren't going to turn around and stab me in the back." Vercetti knew Vince wasn't really one to commit to things. He wouldn't give it to you straight unless he really had to. He didn't like to sugarcoat things, and he didn't mess around with your head. He knew his intentions as clear as day and if you didn't, well, that's something you would have to deal with on your own time. All Vercetti wanted was to know those intentions so he could plan his day.  
  
Vince sighed, looking at Vercetti through narrowed eyes. All right, he thought, what else am I going to do this week? Might as well give him the reassurance he needs. He nodded and took Vercetti's offered hand into a brief but firm handshake. Vercetti broke into a broad smile.  
  
"Good, that's really good. Okay, let's go." He moved off to the car, a van with a large back cargo area. Lance appeared behind Vince as he watched Vercetti walk away. He was in the middle of wondering why Vercetti was wearing such an odd shirt when Lance tapped him on the shoulder. Vince looked at him.  
  
"Did Tommy just call you 'Junior'?" Lance was smiling so wide that the expression looked as if it might split his entire face asunder. Vince blinked. He hadn't thought it was possible to smile so widely. He rolled eyes at the ploy to make fun of him and moved his shotgun from its position on his shoulder to down in front of him, his right hand on the hilt and trigger, his left catching the slide and racking it.  
  
Lance's eyes widened, and his strange smile faded. He held up his hands. Staring down the barrel of a killer's shotgun was not exactly a place he wanted to be. "Okay, okay man, take it easy. My mouth is shut. How about lowering the fucking widow maker," he asked. "You're so damn touchy." He moved past Vince toward the van, muttering to himself.  
  
Vince shook his head and put the gun back into position on his shoulder. He followed Lance to the back of the van and climbed inside as Maria held the door ajar for him. He nodded to her and sat down next to Rosenberg. Maria situated herself on his other side. Vercetti finished talking in a hushed voice to Mercedes and joined them. Vince gave Lance, who was seated on the other side of the cargo area, a sly look and reached into his jacket pocket. He produced two shotgun pellets and commenced loading his weapon, which was lying across his knees.  
  
Lance started at him for a long moment. Suddenly his visage changed, and he leaned forward, annoyance flashing across his eyes. "You mean you were waving that stupid thing at me, and it wasn't even loaded? That's really mean, man. I mean, what the hell?"  
  
Vince chuckled and nodded. He looked up as he locked the chamber back into place, his eyes shimmering with wild amusement. He made the shape of the gun with his fingers and pretended to shoot Lance. He shook his head again and turned his attention back to the gun, making sure it was ready to be used.  
  
Wow, thought Rosenberg, the guy actually does have a sense of humor. That's the first time Tommy's little brother has actually shown that he's human, after all, everyone likes to make fun of Lance. Well, the first time if you don't count him becoming more-than-a-little outraged when Vercetti told him not to become a traitor anyway.  
  
Maria looked at Lance. "I thought you were a hardcore gangster and you're out there stuttering for your life when the silent killer comes to claim your life. I thought you were better than that. Especially since Vince knows that he can't shoot you without getting shot himself. If you hadn't noticed, you're Tommy's friend, and shooting you would make Vince a traitor. Vince is not a traitor."  
  
Lance frowned. "Well, then let him point that big ass mother fucker of a gun at you then and see how you like it," he retorted bitterly. Vince looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. It was clear he hadn't appreciated Lance's tone, but as expected, he said nothing. Lance crossed his arms and sat back against the wall against the wall of the van. "And anyway---"  
  
"Everyone shut up and listen to me," Vercetti interrupted, pulling the van's back doors shut after a suspicious visual sweep of the general area. He turned around in the cramped cargo region to face them. He was crouched down against the doors, and he braced himself as Mercedes got into the driver's seat and started the engine. She swung the car out onto the street. "To pull this off we're all going to have to work together. Everyone is going to have a specified part to play in this, and no one can stray from the part they receive. Do you all understand? The FBI agent we're going to be encountering aren't stupid, well, maybe that one who cannot hold his temper is, but the other isn't. We have to assume that they'll both be able to see past all the cover stuff we'll have going on. The game will be like a puzzle. Every piece has to interlock. Got it?"  
  
"Tommy," Rosenberg piped up, his eyebrows knitted together, and his hands continually wringing themselves out. "I know you explained this to me all ready back at the club, but I'm still not sure I know what it is that I am supposed to be doing."  
  
Vercetti sighed, mildly annoyed. "Look Ken, we've been over this before, three times. All you have to for this sit in that chair behind the desk up in the club's office and pretend you have no fear of the Feds for a little while. I swear that's all you have to do. There's nothing more, nothing hidden, nothing unrevealed."  
  
"But I am scared, Tommy. Don't you see? I'm terrified," Rosenberg exclaimed. He took hold of the collar of Vercetti's shirt for a moment in a desperate attempt to make him understand. He immediately let go when he realized what he was doing. Vercetti raised an eyebrow at him. He pulled at his shirt to straighten it out and cleared his throat.  
  
"I understand that Ken. I know. That's precisely why I said you had to 'pretend' that you have no fear of the Feds. After all, what are they going to do, kill you?" Vercetti ran a weary hand through his brown hair. This was almost routine. Rosenberg really needed to be on medication for his chronic anxiety. It was beginning to bite at Vercetti's nerves. He wasn't a psychiatrist, why was it his job to calm Rosenberg down? It wasn't. So why was he always doing it?  
  
"What if they arrest me?"  
  
Vince rolled his eyes heavenward. He raised his hands and pretended to choke himself, strangling himself with the collar of his leather jacket. He dropped the act with a sigh and looked at Lance as if to say "to hell with you" and made the gun with his hand again, mock shooting Rosenberg between the eyes. Maria and Lance shared the laugh, and Vince went back to inspecting his gun.  
  
Rosenberg, on the other hand, looked horribly offended. "Hey, just because you're mister scary psychotic killer man who's not afraid of anything doesn't mean that I am. I happen to be relatively normal. I'm scared to death over here. I'm scared of death over here!"  
  
Vince chuckled soundlessly and shook his head.  
  
"Gee," Maria said flatly. "I would have never guessed you were scared."  
  
"Normal is all in perspective," Lance muttered. Rosenberg shot him a dirty look. Lance ignored it and started to laugh good-naturedly, finding the concept of Rosenberg, of all people, being normal quite hilarious. Vercetti, however, was less than amused. He caught himself against the left wall as Mercedes threw the van around a hard right turn.  
  
"Are you people finished? This is important," he informed them solidly. They were nearing the Vercetti owned Pole Position strip club now, and the plan for this whole ordeal had not yet been formally laid out. True, Vercetti had told everyone what roles they were supposed to be carrying out back when they were still in the Malibu Club, but he was one to make sure that ideas for such an important project were retained securely in the minds of those participating. "Listen Ken, all you have to is keep those prick agents up in the office long enough for me and the others to set up downstairs, understand?"  
  
"How do I do that," Rosenberg demanded.  
  
"Talk to them," Vercetti answered without hesitation. He clapped the fidgeting lawyer on the shoulder in a brotherly sort of way and smiled. "Don't worry. You'll be just fine. It'll be over before you know it."  
  
"Yeah," Rosenberg said gloomily. "I'll be dead. Dead and gone from this world like so many others."  
  
Mercedes pulled the van into the tiny, square patch of asphalt that served as the Pole Position's back parking lot and shut off the engine. She turned around in her seat to look at her passengers between the two closely set front seats. "Ready?"  
  
"Set," Lance responded, checking to see if all the straps on his Kevlar bulletproof vest were securely in place. Then he reached into his pocket and found his 9-millimeter Uzi. He was ready.  
  
"Go," Vercetti said quietly. He popped the back doors of the van ajar. "And be careful damn it."  
  
They went. The clamored out of the van one by one and stood together in a small knot in the center of the parking lot. Mercedes joined them from the front seat. Vince tapped the hilt of his shotgun and spun on his heel, walking away from them, getting ready to get into position.  
  
"Everyone understand what's going to happen here," Vercetti asked, looking for final verification.  
  
The others nodded and they branched off to go in their separate directions. It was time for the games to begin. There was no such thing as time outs in this game, so each of them could only pray that one wasn't needed. Dangerous type of Olympics this was. Only professionals were to walk through the doors to that strip club now. Vercetti hoped the group of people he had with him were up to the challenge. ----------------------------------------------  
  
Hi, I'm sorry not much happened in this chapter, but I felt it important to update before people forgot about me. I'm paranoid like that. Anyway, something maybe a little interesting will happen in the next installment, so stay tuned if you wish. As always, constructive criticism is welcome, and thank you to all my reviewers, especially Tiffany, who seems to be with me all the way through so far. Your support is greatly appreciated.  
  
-Maverick Point 


	7. The Pole Postition

At the exact moment Vercetti and his compatriots were moving off to put their plan in motion, a black FBI Washington pulled up from the opposite side of the building and parallel parked nearly flawlessly in front of the two glass doors of the entrance. The engine shut off, and the car stood silent for a moment, almost as if it were contemplating proceeding further. In truth, however, it was the people inside the vehicle engaged in such the hesitation. Creed leaned forward and gave the club the once over through the windshield. He was obviously not impressed with what he saw, but he couldn't hide the fact that he was somewhat uncomfortable with where his job had led him.  
  
"Jeez," he said quietly, not really to anyone in particular. "Leave it to Vercetti to purchase and run a place like this one." Creed was one of those kids that got straight A's and won the town's spelling bees. He never really had any ambition to do anything that was considered dirty or off the rule book of life. Thus, he had never been to a strip club, and because of that, he was extremely uneasy. Shy around women who were fully clothed, it was hard to tell what he would do around them when they weren't wearing anything at all.  
  
Ford looked at his partner haphazardly. He was probably the exactly opposite of Creed. They were black white, night and day. Ford had always had a penchant for getting into trouble, and he always needed someone there to bail him out. He had been, in today's standards, a normal teenage boy. He had no problems walking up into the Pole Position now. Creed's reluctance amused him.  
  
"What's wrong with you," he asked. "Are you afraid you'll get distracted in there? Maybe see something you will regret later? Or maybe it's the exact opposite. Maybe you're scared that you'll see something in there that you'll like. Is that it?"  
  
Creed frowned at Ford's teasing smile. "No," he replied defensively. "I was just commenting."  
  
Ford's smile grew wider. He un buckled his seat belt and opened the door. He was halfway out of the car before he spoke again. "Just keep your eyes shut," he said with a laugh. "Don't worry, I won't let you run into to anything."  
  
Creed rolled his eyes. He released his seatbelt and opened his door, grumbling to himself. Slamming the door, he looked up at the building, shielding his eyes against the sun. He shook his head. He was being such a moron. What was he afraid of? Come on, Creed. Just go. Ford was already through the doors, and Creed jogged to catch up with him.  
  
The club was alive. Music blared over a multi-speaker system, the bass making the building tremble. Customers were scattered about the main room of the club, some sitting at tables, so right up against the runways where girls moved up and down, flaunting and almost taunting. Lights strung up on low-hanging electrics flashed with the beat of the music. The entire room was dominated by the strobes, the walls turning blue, red, and the traditional white in turn. All around, people watched scarcely dressed women dance on tabletops and counters. Ford blinked. The lights began to pound through him, giving him the worst kind of headache. He turned around and faced the bar on his right. He waved his arm to get the tender's attention.  
  
"Hey," he shouted over the loud ruckus of the club, "we're looking for the owner of this place. Can you tell us where he is?" Ford shifted his weight so that he was leaning on the edge of the bar slightly sideways. Like a man making a movie, he flashed his identification at the bewildered bartender.  
  
The tender shrugged impassively, and then he leaned forward. "He's not in right now," he said, wiping his hands on a white towel and then slinging it over his shoulder. "but if you boys really need to see him, you can't probably check the office upstairs. Sometimes someone from his crew is up there."  
  
Ford nodded and moved away from the bar. He pushed past Creed, who was standing relatively close to him and walked off toward the back of the club. Creed followed close behind him. It wasn't long before they reached a long, narrow orange-lit hallway with doors on either side. A look inside one of the rooms revealed that they were private booths for "viewing" purposes. Ford shook his head, slightly disgusted and spotted a staircase on his left that led up into nothing but darkness. He immediately went up. The staircase was longer than it looked, and both agents were puffing for air by the time they reached a tall wooden door that stated "Employees Only." They walked in after briefly exchanging glances. The door was unlocked, and Ford realized the abnormality of such a development a little too late. Vercetti would have never left the door unlocked. Think of all the people who could just waltz in a take whatever the hell they wanted!  
  
Nevertheless, the two agents walked into the office, closing the door behind them. Ford looked around, half expecting the office to be desolate, half expecting to be attacked by someone hidden in the shadows. He started when he saw Ken Rosenberg sitting rigidly behind the desk. "Rosenberg," he choked, shocked. His voice cracked with disbelief. The cowardly lawyer was the last person he had expected to see. Mercedes Cortez, sure. Vincent Vercetti, sure, why not? But Kenneth Rosenberg?!  
  
Rosenberg looked at them frankly, obviously trying to conjure up the courage to look like he knew what he was doing. It wasn't working very well. He wiped sweat away from his brow nervously. "Um, we thought you FBI boys would come looking here," he said, his words shaking in fear.  
  
"Damn straight we came here. Now where the hell is Vercetti," Ford demanded sternly.  
  
Rosenberg shrugged. "I have absolutely no idea," he answered. "We got separated after our little adventure at Kaufman's, and I got this phone call from him that said to meet you people here at this time. Tommy knows exactly what you guys are doing here. He knows your every move. You can't out smart a fox." He paused. "But he didn't tell me where he was. So I don't know."  
  
Ford leaned over the desk abruptly and caught Rosenberg by the collar of his suit jacket. "Yes you do," he accused. "You know exactly where he is, and you're going to tell me or else ---"  
  
"Or else what," Rosenberg exclaimed. "Or else you'll bust me and I'll go to jail of eight million years? Or else you'll rip my throat out and leave me lying here on the floor while you walk off back downstairs like nothing ever happened? Come on! I told you, I don't know! I swear it!"  
  
"You had better speak up Mister Rosenberg," Creed said nonchalantly, gazing out the window of the office, trying to pretend that he didn't see them at all. "My partner has a short fuse. I can't guarantee that I can stop him from putting you in a body bag."  
  
"Hey! Y-you can't threaten me like that," Rosenberg told him fiercely.  
  
"Who says," Ford asked, still not releasing the terrified lawyer's jacket. "As long as we doing go too far and actually kill you, we're well within our rights. We can, however, force you to tell us what you know by taking you down the local police station under the suspicion of harboring and/or aiding a wanted criminal. If you haven't noticed yet, you're sort of impeding our investigation. So talk."  
  
"P-put me d-down," Rosenberg pleaded, stammering out of sheer alarm.  
  
"Not until you tell me where Vercetti is."  
  
"D-downstairs! He's downstairs, second room on the r-right!"  
  
Ford finally let go, and Rosenberg slumped back into his chair, straightening his glasses. "Thank you," the agent said politely. The lawyer looked up at him in disbelief.  
  
"Sure, sure. No problem," he said. "I hope Tommy kicks your ass," he added under his breath.  
  
Creed led the way of the office. "That guy is going to need some new pants, I think," he said as Ford closed the office door behind him. That had gone over well. Sort of. At least they knew now that Vercetti was somewhere in the building. All they had to do now was get him cornered so that they could make the arrest. Easier said than done. Vincent and the others were probably with him, which outnumbered the agents considerably. Well, no bother. The arrest would be made, as difficult as it would be to pull off.  
  
Both agents drew their guns from their belt holsters and crept down the stairs. Once they neared the room that Rosenberg had indicated, they spun around and pressed their backs against the outer wall, out of sight. There was no telling what was waiting for them in that room. Vercetti could have set up an entire arsenal, guns pointed right at the doorframe. Today was not a good day to die, Creed decided. He took a deep breath. On Ford's hasty signal, they sprang out in front of the door, guns poised, and eyes surveying the area for any immediate danger.  
  
There was nothing in the room. Creed and Ford both relaxed, but they kept their guns up, just in case. The room remained motionless as their eyes perused it, until they ran across a single dancer, her body swaying gently with the beat of the music, her back towards them.  
  
"That is not Vercetti," Creed commented, blinking slowly.  
  
"Really now," Ford said flatly. "Thank you so much for pointing that out. I would have never known that that woman there is not Thomas Vercetti if you not so graciously told me." The sarcasm was heavy. Ford advanced into the room, his gun outstretched before him. "Tell me where he is."  
  
"Who," the dancer wanted to know. "I would appreciate it if you would stop pointing that thing at me."  
  
"Hey Pat," Creed said. "Is that who I think it is?"  
  
"Yes," Ford replied. "Come now Miss Cortez. Tell me where Vercetti is. This is not the time to play dumb with me. I don't like it when people do that." He circled around here, his gun never leaving face level.  
  
"Which one? Junior or Big Brother?"  
  
"Either, both. Just tell me."  
  
"Well, it really depends on which one you want to see right at this very second of you life," Mercedes responded. She stopped moving and placed a hand on her hip. There was an audible click from somewhere in the room unseen. It took the agents a moment to realize that the sound had come from behind them. Creed froze, too close to the door, and to danger, to make any sudden movements. Vince had racked the slide of his shotgun, a warning to them, telling them that he was there.  
  
"Drop your weapons gentlemen, and when I say weapons, I mean all of them. That includes the ones in your ankle and shoulder holsters. After you've done that little job for me, I want you to pull you pocket inside out and leave them like that so I can see that. I want you do all of this very slowly so I know you aren't going to go Clint Eastwood on me or something, got it?" Mercedes was smirking at them.  
  
Creed's pistol dropped from his hand. He wasn't keen on being shot in the back. Ford wasn't about to give up that easily. He immediately spun around and fired his gun, pulling another, heavier pistol from under his jacket in the same movement. Suddenly, he had two weapons and was firing like man possessed at Vince, who dove for cover around the other side of the doorframe.  
  
Bullets thudded dully into the wood, forcing it to splinter. Creed, taken completely by surprise did the only thing that he could do; he ducked. Shards off the doorframe flew in every direction as Mercedes pressed herself against the wall of avoid them. Ford stopped firing long enough to see Vercetti appear on the other side of the doorframe, next to Vince. He had apparently been somewhere down the hall prior to the gunfire. Outraged and desperate to right Vercetti's wrongs, Ford took a swift step over Creed and moved out into the hall, one gun pointed in either direction. Vercetti looked down the barrel of Ford's gun. "You know," he said. "I am getting really tired of being on this end of a weapon. That's three times in the last two days."  
  
"Get used to it Vercetti," Ford growled. He was about to advance forward when Vercetti tackled him with lightning fast movements, and both men toppled to the floor. Caught by surprise, Ford discharged his second weapon and Vince went down as well. Vercetti wrenched the gun from Ford's grasp as the agent pulled the second gun up to bring down on the back of his neck. The hilt missed and struck Vercetti in the back of the head. Vercetti saw stars for moment, his vision blackening on the edges. He shook his head. He wasn't about to let himself fall unconscious.  
  
He managed to twist himself around to get a hold of the other gun and soon Ford was without his weapons. Ford wasn't about to be left helpless, however. He struggled for a second before managed to bring his first up for a hard punch that caught Vercetti right in the jaw. Vercetti fell back a little, yelping quietly in shock more than pain. That was enough to allow Ford to push himself up and grab the FBI issue hand gun that he originally lost grip on. He landed another punch in Vercetti's face before scrambling to his feet. He aimed the gun at Vercetti, who was sitting on the floor, supporting himself on one elbow while his other hand was up to his nose. Blood gushed through his fingers.  
  
"Jesus," Vercetti muttered.  
  
"Get up," Ford ordered, gesturing with his gun.  
  
"Freeze." There was another click as the hammer of a .45 was pulled back and locked into place. Ford turned his head to see the silvery black barrel of the gun right next to his left eye. He immediately dropped his own weapon. It fell heavily to the floor. "Not a good time to play Dare Devil, FBI man," Maria commented as she continued to level the gun.  
  
Ford showed her that his hands were empty. Damn, this wasn't good. Vercetti picked himself up off the floor, his hand still stopping the blood flow from his nose. Maria guided Ford back into the room and sat him down next to Creed, who was being tied up by Lance. A series of slip knots would keep him from finding his way to freedom. Handcuffs secured his arms behind his back, and someone had stuffed a gag in his mouth. Lance made sure he could breathe before tying a cloth around his mouth to keep him from expelling the gag.  
  
Ford sat down hard next to his partner and was tied up in much the same manner. Vercetti picked up both the government issue Sig Sauer and the Colt Python from where they had fallen. He entered the room and stood in front of Creed in Ford, examining them in silence for a long moment. He hefted the Python in his hand. "Nice gun, FBI man," he said at last. "I don't remember law enforcement ever issuing these things to agents, so it must be your own little toy, right? Buy it in the Ammunation in Downtown Vice? What's in there, five thousand? That's heavy."  
  
"You son of a bitch," Ford spat venomously.  
  
"Temper, temper FBI man. Don't give yourself an aneurysm. You've got this funny little vein bulging thing going on in your forehead. It looks like you might pop. It's kind of scary; you may want to have that checked by a doctor or something," Vercetti replied. He removed his hand from his nose just long enough for a stream of blood to trickle onto his shirt. Shit, Ford had nailed him hard. He put his hand back.  
  
Lance tied the gag around Ford's mouth, much to the FBI agent's disdain. He tried to yell something to them, but his words were too muffled to be understood. Vercetti shot a glance at Vince, who was sitting in the middle of the hall, one hand over his chest. "You okay?"  
  
Vince nodded.  
  
"Ah, the blessings of a Kevlar vest," Maria reflected somewhat wistfully.  
  
"Good. Well fellas," he said, looking back at Creed and Ford. "We're going to leave you here for a little while, out of the way. You understand right?" His voice sounded oddly nasal as he tried to staunch the blood, so he wouldn't likely bleed to death or some such nonsense. "Oh, and my girls don't like the long arm of the law, so you keep your hands to yourselves," he added. It wasn't as if they could break the ties, but Vercetti rather liked the way that sounded. "Let's get out of here."  
  
"What are we going to do now, Tommy? We can't just leave them there. Don't you think someone is bounded to notice," Rosenberg asked nervously as the group exited out the back door of the club. They began to pile back into the van again. Mercedes took her place behind the wheel.  
  
"Don't worry so much, Ken. You know how worked up you can get. I don't want you getting too stressed out of this. You're liable to ruin a perfectly good pair of pants. Remember how you reacted to a door being slammed," Vercetti asked, accepting the handkerchief Lance handed him. "Get in the car."  
  
Rosenberg complied and sat down next to Vince, who scooted pointedly away, as if he really believed that the lawyer was capable ruin his pants. Rosenberg shot him a dirty look as Vercetti climbed into the back and pulled the back doors shut. Vince put his jacket back on. He hadn't wanted to mess it up on the mission, so he had taken it off, but the air conditioning blasting from the vents as Mercedes started the van's engines told him that he would need, if only for the car ride.  
  
"Where to," Mercedes asked as she backed the van onto the road. Good question. Vercetti thought about it. They couldn't go back to Malibu Club now. If the FBI got loose, that would be the next place that they would discover. The last thing he wanted was to be under federal siege. He rubbed at his chin, where two days worth of stubble had started to grow.  
  
"Um, well, Mercedes, do you still have a way to contact your father?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"All right. Then let's head for the docks in Washington Beach."  
  
**************************  
  
In the assistant director's office on the seventh floor of the FBI headquarters, the telephone rang. And it ran again. And again. Finally, someone scooped it up off its cradle and spoke into it. "Grimm here," the AD said, not even looking up from the report he was reviewing. He made a small noise of disgust before putting the folder down and hastily signing his name at the bottom. His agents really needed to learn how to write. He wandered how someone had gotten this far without knowing how to spell "bureau" correctly. He realized that the phone had not made a noise, like there was no one on the other end. "Hello?"  
  
"Assistant Director Alexander Grimm," a voice stated gravely.  
  
Grimm raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, putting the end of the pen into his mouth and gently tapping against his teeth. "Yes. Who is this?"  
  
"It may interest you to know that your Vice City agents have been bested by the best. You will find them tied and gagged in the Pole Position strip club in Ocean Beach," the voice said. Then there was a click and Grimm received a dial tone. He frowned and gently put the phone back where it belonged. He paused for a second before getting on the intercom that connected him to the outside office.  
  
"Sarah?" "Yes sir," came his secretary's voice.  
  
"Who do we have working down in Vice City, Florida right now?"  
  
"Let me check for you, sir."  
  
Grimm let go of the button and sat back, pondering. He wondered how an anonymous tip caller had managed to bypass all the lower lines and get a direct link to his office. He had thought the FBI wires to be rather secure. Could he have been wrong? He hoped to God that he wasn't, for if he was, he could be dealing with a major crisis in the times to come. He narrowed his eyes and glanced at the phone.  
  
"Sir?" Sarah's voice came back over the intercom. "We currently have two agents working out of Washington in Vice City."  
  
"Who are they?" Grimm leaned forward.  
  
"Special Agents Graydon Creed and Patrick Ford," she answered.  
  
"Get me a special operations team right away, Sarah. I have a feeling we're being set up in some way."  
  
"Right away, sir."  
---------------------------------------------------------------  
  
A/N: Sorry it wasn't a big action scene, but there's something kind of large over the horizon. Bear with me, and I'll show it to you. I hope you guys like the story thus far. Constructive criticism is always welcome, and if anybody has any questions feel free to ask. I feel I should remind you that my little GTA yarn is not following the game. This is entirely my own. I hope you all will remember that and not flame me later on when things start to go haywire.  
  
-Maverick 


	8. Closing In

Vince Vercetti tossed a stone out in front of him and watched splash into the glassy water that lapped quietly below the dock. He was sitting on the very edge of the pier that extending from the long dock, so close to falling off that it was a wonder that he hadn't done so already. The docks were situated behind a large parking complex that nearly completely concealed their existence. One had to veer off the Sea Breeze drive at an odd angle in order to reach them as inaccessible as they were. Vince threw another stone out, eyeing the ripples critically and admiring they way the disturbed the calmness of the solid black water. He was just passing time. He hated this part of any operation. Waiting wasn't something he was fond of; he was, after all, an extremely impatient person. He was used to getting what he wanted precisely when he wanted it.  
  
Vercetti stood a little ways behind his brother, leaning against one of the support pillars that shot up from the water to hold the wooden planks of the pier in place as if it had skewered the water. The water continued to splash around under the dock mournfully, like it was dead, like the pier had managed to take its life away with its very existence. Vercetti busily polished a Spaz-12 shotgun with a grease-stained cloth, his full concentration on the gun's chamber. He was oblivious to the world. Rosenberg sat uneasily at his feet, twiddling his thumbs nervously and polishing his glasses more often than he really needed to.  
  
Lance approached the docks from the parking garage, his hands in his pockets. There was something about his face, the infernal grin he wore, that seemed a little out of the ordinary, and Maria caught onto it when she looked up to see who was coming. "Where have you been," she demanded to know from her perch on the van's hood, her senses telling her that something didn't seem right at all.  
  
"I was checking out all the bad-ass vehicles in the complex," Lance explained a little too hastily.  
  
Mercedes was standing near the water, one hand covering her ear as she listened to a small, compact cell phone with the other. She smiled at something the person on the other line had said and then laughed, perhaps a little too loudly. Her shrill chortle echoed off the night sky and disappeared. Everyone turned to look at her, even Vercetti, who stopped in the middle of the cleaning of his gun. There was a brief moment of silence. Mercedes blushed wildly and indicated that she had she had been laughing at the person on the phone. She turned away from them as they turned away from her and continued with her evidently amusing conversation.  
  
Vercetti had instructed her to call Colonel Cortez and request a pick up. He assumed that her father would respond as quickly has he could, for he owed Vercetti quite a favor. Mercedes had indeed called him; Vercetti could remember her talking to him, but then he had tuned out. So who they hell was she talking to now? He hoped she hadn't gotten incredibly side-tracked as she had a habit of doing. He paused in his firearm cleaning and glanced at the sky, squinting against the setting sun.  
  
"It's getting dark, Mercedes. Is he coming or not," Vercetti asked.  
  
Mercedes waved her hand at him like she was trying to swat a fly and frowned. She obviously didn't like his intrusion into her conversation. Vercetti shook his head. Never step in between women like Mercedes and their telephones.  
  
Vince got up after tossing his last stone into the sparkling ocean and brushed off his pants. He straightened out his jacket and strode up the dock with a particular purpose on mind. Vercetti watched him, knowing what his intentions were, and he smiled. Mercedes was not going to be happy.  
  
"Well, is he or not," Vercetti asked Mercedes, craning his neck to watch Vince as he left his direct line of vision. "Come on Mercedes, don't keep me on hold here."  
  
"Yeah, yeah he's coming, now will you please be quiet? I can't hear," Mercedes responded curtly. She went back to giggling into the phone. Vercetti wondered who in the world could possibly that funny. Vince approached Mercedes and gently took the phone from her hand. He look at it for a moment before snapping it shut, successfully hanging up the line. Then he turned and threw it into the ocean as far as his arm could propel it. It arced up high and then came back down far out, it's splash soft in the night. Then Vince turned on his heel and walked away, back towards the edge of the dock. Mercedes graced him with a rather unladylike gesture that involved the raising of a certain finger, behind his back.  
  
Vercetti laughed and raised his gaze to the quickly darkening sky again.  
  
"Daddy should be here around two, Tommy. He says he can't get here any sooner because the yacht blew in engine or something last weekend," Mercedes said. "So we're in for a bit of a wait."  
  
"What time is it now," Vercetti snapping his fingers in front of Rosenberg's eyes.  
  
"About seven," Rosenberg responded obediently.  
  
"Oh. Well get comfortable everyone."  
  
**********************  
  
Alexander Grimm entered the Pole Position strip club at nearly nine-thirty that same night. He glanced around at the joint dubiously, his cold eyes sweeping the perimeter from behind his thin wire-framed glasses. His team of agents filtered in around him from all sides, make him look like a rock in a stream. Patrons of the club, terrified of the sudden infiltration of federal officers scrambled in all directions, some zipping up their pants as they made for the exits. The scene disgusted Grimm, and he shook his head. The strippers didn't seem particularly daunted, but they climbed down from their respective platforms and tables and disappeared into back rooms. Working with a gangster like Tommy Vercetti seemed to have desensitized people a little. Grimm leaned forward over the bar and addressed the bar tender. "Turn off that god-awful music," he shouted to be heard over the music that pulsed through the club. Grimm could almost feel the walls shaking and the floor quaking. He didn't like it. The bartender nodded and reached under the counter with one hand to find the switches; the boy moved quickly, but not in a movement of fear. His freckled face remained emotionless. Suddenly, the room plunged into comfortable silence, and the strobe lights switched off. Florescent lights in the ceiling took their places. Grimm nodded, satisfied.  
  
"Good," he said in his usual quiet and reserved tone. "Now, tell me where I can find Thomas J. Vercetti." The agents fanned out, covering the floor of the club, some moving up the back corridors to investigate the other rooms. Their trained eyes perused the environment for anything out of the ordinary.  
  
"He came in here earlier today and two other guys came calling on him," the bartended replied. "I sent them upstairs to the office to see the dude that had gone up there before, because I didn't know if Mr. Vercetti was still in here. He tends to disappear. The guy who was up in the office wasn't him, though. I know that much, Anyway, I haven't see any of them since."  
  
"Where's the office," Grimm asked, pressing the palms of his hands onto the counter top.  
  
"Upstairs, like I said," the bartender answered, rolling his eyes. "Take that hallway over there and go up the first flight of stairs you see on your left. I can't really guarantee that you'll be able to get in though, because Mr. Vercetti likes to keep it locked."  
  
"Thank you," Grimm said absently; he was already moving away from the counter. The bartender shrugged and went back to wiping a few shot glass dry with a damp, white towel. Grimm took two agents up the stairs with him. The office at the top was indeed locked, so Grimm set his agents to work on the lock. It became their one and only job to get the door open and search the office. Grimm returned downstairs and was approached by a young agent who looked as if he wanted to salute or something ridiculous like that.  
  
"Sir," he said a little too crisply, "We found Special Agents Creed and Ford. They're over here." The over eager rookie led the Assistant Director of the FBI down the hall and into a room near the end. As they entered, Creed and Ford were just being released from their elaborate restraints.  
  
"Agents," Grimm demanded loudly, "what the hell happened here?"  
  
Creep jumped to his feet, nearly knocking over the agents who had freed him from Lance's system of knots. "AD Grimm!"  
  
"Can the damn formalities," Grimm barked. "I asked you a question!"  
  
"The Vercetti brothers and their little group ambushed us here and, then they tore off. We don't know where they went. Sir, it was a planned attack," Ford explained flatly as he stood up and rubbed at his wrists. He straightened his tie.  
  
"How the hell does a man escape from police custody twice in forty-eight hours," Grimm inquired. The whole situation baffled him. He just couldn't see how it was humanly possible, not with all the men at the disposal of law enforcement. It was impossible. Wasn't it?  
  
"He has a lot of allies, sir," Creed said, a little embarrassed. "They all came to his aid." His eyes rested firmly on the floor, and his hands kept twitching, a true sign of his discomfort.  
  
"May I ask how you found us here, sir," Ford asked curiously. He took the time to pull at the wrinkles in his blazer and brush his rebellious hair from his eyes.  
  
"An anonymous tip," Grimm answered.  
  
"Anonymous? But the only people who were knew we were tied up back here were the Vercetti brothers, Cortez, Vance, Rosenberg, and what's her name? Maria?"  
  
**********************  
  
It was nearing one-thirty in the morning when Mercedes finally spotted her father's yacht approaching the docks on the distant horizon. That in itself was an amazing feat, seeing as though the night was extremely dark. Vercetti had wondered out loud earlier why there were not street lights in the back of the parking complex where the docks were. He had shrugged it off. A lot of strange business went down back in the area, didn't want anyone to see what exactly went on. Right?  
  
Mercedes squinted at the massive silhouette approaching from the end of the Vice Straights. After confirming mentally that it was indeed her father's ship, she rounded the back corner of the van, which was still sitting where it had been initially parked, and popped open the doors. Vercetti was sound asleep on the floor inside, having drifted off into such a state some two hours after Vince had thrown her cell phone into the watery depths of the ocean. Mercedes smiled at his still form and leaned forward, shaking him gently to wake him.  
  
He sat up like he was spring loaded, his eyes flying open, gun in hand. "Huh," he articulated in muted panic. "What? Who's there? What's going on?" Mercedes giggled, watching his eyes dart back and forth with unhidden suspicion. The man had just been awakened in a place that he did not immediately recognize, so of course it was a natural reaction for him to go for his firearm. That was funny.  
  
She calmed put her hand on the top of the gun's nozzle and lowered it slowly from her face, allowing him to focus on her identity in the dim light. "My father's almost here," she said quietly. "It's time to get moving." Vercetti blinked a few times, then he rubbed his eyes and put his gun away, yawning. Mercedes backed away from the van to allow him room to jump out, which he did. He stretched and inhaled deeply.  
  
"Wake up Ken and Maria," he instructed Lance, who seemed to be dozing lightly leaning against the front door of the van, his arms folded tightly across his chest. His left hand held a handgun, as if he was afraid something would jump out of the ocean and try to kill them all. A man needed protection. "I'll go get my brother," Vercetti finished as Lance walked off to find the other two members of the group.  
  
Vercetti walked to the end of the pier where Vince snoozed lightly, his weight against the tall wooden support pillar. He was sitting, his arms crossed, his face turned toward the water. His legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. It was a small wonder that he hadn't fallen over. Vercetti nudged him lightly with the toe of his shoe, and Vince started in such a way that his brother feared he would fall off the dock and into the water.  
  
Apparently, Vince was afraid of the same thing, because he grabbed the pillar behind him to steady himself. He looked at the water, dark and strangely murky as it was, and then back up into Vercetti's slightly amused visage, his face full of present inquiry.  
  
"It's almost time to get moving," the older man said. Vince nodded and hauled himself to his feet. He straightened his jacket and pushed past his brother, walking off in the direction of the van. Vercetti had been caught off guard, and he teetered on the edge of the dock, his arm's failing, nearly falling off to his own watery fate. He clung to the support pillar and pulled himself back to stability. He breathed a sigh of relief. He cleared his throat in an oddly out of place attempt to regain his composure and followed Vince's path back to the base of the pier. The colonel's yacht was now in full view, its deck lights twinkling merrily against the vast net of stars above the water.  
  
Vercetti and the others watched the boat's rapid approach. As it pulled expertly up to the dock, a well groomed, somewhat elderly man appeared on the upper deck, his sharp black eyes scanning the Vice City landscape with a gaze that was obviously trained to catch the slightest hint of danger. Traps were nothing new to the military man, and he had been pounded with them enough times to know how to spot them. Colonel Juan Garcia Cortez was not an idiot. His line of vision shifted down, and he spotted the small group on the ground below. He grinned.  
  
"Hola Mercedes," he shouted, "and Thomas, my friend." He waved his arm in a wide arc, sending his greeting, and making sure it could be easily seen. He wanted to assure them that he was indeed who he appeared to be. He knew Thomas Vercetti well enough to know that the man was looking for any indications of an ambush as well. That's one thing he liked about Vercetti. Vercetti was no fool. "I am sorry to have made you wait for so long."  
  
"Not a problem, Colonel," Vercetti called back, returning Cortez's waving greeting.  
  
"Hola Papa," Mercedes cried, a huge grin plastered to her face. Vercetti didn't think he could remember a time when he had seen her so excited about something. She wasn't really the type of girl that was easy to impress. You needed to do something pretty drastic to get her attention, but her family ties seemed to be proving the exception.  
  
The group climbed aboard the ship as the boarding plank descended. Cortez met the at the entrance to the third deck, and Mercedes ran forward, throwing her arms around his neck. "It's been too long, father." She laughed girlishly, and Vercetti raised an eyebrow.  
  
Cortez laughed, returning the hug with one arm while extending the other to shake hands with Vercetti. His eyes remained wary, however, as he eyed the other four members of the group. He knew for sure that Mercedes and Vercetti were who they appeared to be, but he had never seen any of the other before. How was he to know that they weren't some kind of threat? The fact that his daughter and the man he had come to think of as a son were not afraid of them didn't do anything to appease him. There was always the chance the sides had been switched. He didn't like the aspect, but he couldn't rule it out. "Yes, indeed it has been too long, my daughter. Care to introduce me to your new compatriots?"  
  
Vercetti took over. "Well," he said, "This is my brother Vince, and that's Maria, Vince's friend-type-person I guess. And that's my friend lawyer Ken Rosenberg. Finally, that's Lance Vance, a very good friend of mine."  
  
"Any friend of yours, Thomas, if a friend of mine," Cortez said with a wide smile. "Come on, get on deck here so we can pull the plank back up, mis amigos." The suspicion left his face. He had no reason to distrust Vercetti. The man had worked well and hard for him, and even when things got a little hairy towards the end, Vercetti remained by his side to protect him. Cortez appreciated that.  
  
The boarding plank thundered back into place, locking into the side of the ship. As the group ducked into a nearby cabin, with Cortez in the lead, the yacht began to pull away from the docks. Once everyone was settled, the colonel led Vercetti into the privacy of the bridge, where the extensive front window gave ample view of the waters in front of the vehicle. "I'm guessing you are going to want to get out of U.S. waters," he asked. He stood with his feet spread a shoulder's width apart behind the large navigational terminal, his hands clasped behind his back.  
  
"We want to go as far as you're willing to take us, Colonel," Vercetti answered, stifling a yawn. He nodded curtly. "We have some 'annoyances' on our tails that we'd just as soon drop."  
  
"Ah, I understand completely, amigo. Believe me. Where would you like to go? The world is mine to command. I go where I please, and right now, I will take you anywhere you wish," Cortez said.  
  
Vercetti shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if he could not sit still. "I don't know where I want to go," he said honestly. He hadn't really put a ton of thought into any particular destination. All he really wanted to do was get out of Florida before something terrible happened. He was a hard man to kill, but he didn't want to take his chances. One never knew where and when a bullet would catch him in the ass.  
  
"You have blood on your shirt, amigo. Are you injured?"  
  
"No," Vercetti answered with a small laugh. "Nose bleed. Must be the climate."  
  
The colonel nodded.  
  
"Let's head out toward international waters then. We can figure out where to go from there. I'm sure your 'annoyances' will find it exceedingly difficult to apprehend you and you friends when you are all so far out of their reach," Cortez offered smoothly. "In the meantime, why don't you go below and get some sleep. We have a long journey ahead of us."  
  
"Right," Vercetti said. "Thank you, Colonel."  
  
As Vercetti walked away, Cortez smiled. "It's good to see you again, my friend. You really saved my hide back there when all those French bastards were on me. For that, I am eternally grateful."  
  
Vercetti shrugged without stopping to turn around. "Not a problem, Colonel. It was a great pleasure."  
  
*********************  
  
Ford had not said anything since they left the Pole Position thirty minutes ago. It was a set of thirty minutes that seemed to drag on for hours, and Creed had had just about enough of it. He kept throwing awkward glances at his partner, trying to figure out what exactly it was that had Ford all out of sorts. Sure, Vercetti beat them at the game again, but what else was new? The older federal agent had not been so bitter after the first two times, so what made this time any different? Was it because Ford had floored the criminal, and he still got away? Yeah, that must be it. It was a top dog thing. Creed gripped the steering wheel, guiding the car toward the hotel in Ocean Beach. Grimm set them up there to "get some rest."  
  
The AD had gone back to Washington D.C, taking the strike team with him. It had taken a good hour of convincing, near the point of begging, to get the man to leave, and Creed was the one to take the task upon himself. Ford had been no help what-so-ever, as he refused to speak.  
  
"All right," Creed proclaimed very suddenly. "I've had just about enough of your shit, Pat. What the hell is wrong with you, anyway?" Creed was angry, bitterly so at Ford's behavior. The two of them had been through all the same things on this god-forsaken mission, hadn't they? Ford didn't see Creed sitting in the goddamn corner sulking, did he? Sure, the younger agent was angry, but he wasn't about to allow it to affect his field performance.  
  
"There's no way we're going to catch this guy, Gray. He's too damn elusive. He's just going to go on killing people and destroying lives, and he's going to continue to get away with it too. It's not going to change," Ford said dejectedly, inwardly shocked by Creed's sudden furious outburst.  
  
Creed glanced at him sideways before returning his gaze to the road in front of him. "I suppose you think that's it. You want to give up and fly your ass back to Washington. You want to forget the whole thing; is that what you're saying?" His hands tightened around the wheel. "We just have to get our heads above water. You can't give up just yet. Not until you're bleeding in the streets." Creed couldn't believe what he was hearing from the senior agent. He sounded like a whining brat no older than five years of age. Ford looked at Creed in slight surprise. Where had that come from? Creed had always been quiet, never speaking unless spoken to, and he didn't seem like the type to become irritated by the way other people were acting. He did more of his own thing. Ford sighed and looked down. Even so, he knew the kid was right. Creed was shaking his head in disgust, pulling the car into a parking spot in front of the Ocean View Hotel. They sat there in silence for a long moment.  
  
"We need a lead," Ford said at last.  
  
"How's this for a lead? Vercetti has a hotel room in this joint. Supposedly, he keeps all sorts of crap in there. The hotel employees don't go in there for maintenance or cleaning, so everything is untouched," Creed responded in a low voice. He unbuckled his seat belt, opened his door, and left the car, slamming the door shut behind him.  
  
Ford sat in the passenger seat for a stunned moment before blinking slowly. Wow, that had been awfully unexpected. He took the time to wonder just how much more Creed knew about this case. The young agent was proving himself more knowledgeable with every second passed. Ford grinned, getting out of the car and following. Maybe the kid wasn't so bad after all.  
  
Creed asked the desk clerk where Vercetti's room was, and within moment, both agents were trekking up the black granite steps to the second floor. The hallways were dark, little light streaming through the strangely scarce windows. Ford pondered just kind of hotel this was, anyway. Vercetti's domain turned out to be at the very end of the hall. Curiously, the door was unlocked. Guns drawn, they entered. They didn't want to risk being ambushed again.  
  
But no one was in the room. Vercetti's clothes were draped over the backs of chairs and strewn haphazardly on the bed. Posters hung on the walls, containing both violent and perverted images. Ford frowned as he split up from Creed and they went to opposite sides of the room to search. The bed was covered stack of American money, which was spilling out a blue duffel bag, barrels of "boom shine" in the corner, and bottles of beer on the counter in the wet bar. Ford put away his gun, satisfied that there was no threat. Creed did the same.  
  
"Check this out," Creed said. He was standing near the window, where twelve broke tiki statues were scattered about on the sill. Each had white powder seeping from the cracks of the containers, and Ford risked a taste from his finger tip. He cringed.  
  
"Yuck. That's definitely cocaine. I guess Vercetti found the merchandise from the drug deal he was sent here on," he observed. "There are some interesting trophies over on the television set. Apparently, Vercetti is Ammunition's "shooter of the month." That accounts for his deadly accuracy."  
  
A phone rang before Creed could respond, its shrill cry echoing throughout the confines of the room. Creed and Ford exchanged glances. They checked their pockets to confirm that it wasn't one of theirs, and then they looked around. The phone had to be somewhere nearby. The ringing cellular turned out to be under the stacks of money on the bed.  
  
"Um, hello," Creed asked into the phone once he figured out how to turn the damn thing on.  
  
"I bet you could use some help. So listen up," an unfamiliar voice said. "Colonel Juan Cortez has taken your charge under his wing. They are in the mid Vice Straight to the south of Washington Beach. Look for them heading on a yacht heading east." The phone went dead.  
  
Creed took it away from his ear and looked at it, one eyebrow raised in inquiry.  
  
Ford was looked at him. "What was that?"  
  
"Well," Creed said slowly. "Vercetti and the others are in the Vice Straights. The phone said so."  
  
"Then let's go, right?"  
  
"Should we call Washington for a team?"  
  
"Definitely."  
  
***************************************************  
  
Sorry for the delay. Man, exams sure do suck. Tell me what you guys think? Here's a teaser for the next chapter: the feds catch up to Vercetti and the rest of the group, there are some explosions and stuff, and two particular Vercetti groupies get themselves in a real mess. Someone does some talking, and oh, is Tommy pissed. Hope I grabbed your attention. Stay tuned, and review!!  
  
-Maverick Point 


	9. Under Siege!

Darkness had always fascinated Vincent Vercetti. He was amazed to learn what kind of things lurked around after the sun went down. Normally, it was just the human fear that brought the monsters out of hiding, but on very rare occasions, the demons were real. He never thought of himself as being one, of course, however, on many levels, wasn't that just what he was? He was a hunter, and people happened to be his prey. It was not his choice; it was his occupation. He liked the shadows of the night veil. It made him feel at home, like he was secure, and so was his identity. He held a particular liking of the stars. That was something he had never understood.  
  
He glanced down as Lance Vance approached him, turning back to the sky and crossing his arms behind his head. He was stretched out on one of the deck chairs, the bright, twinkling stars soaring above on an endless canvas made of the black ink of midnight. He gave his guest a slight nod and then a questioning look, as if to say "what are you doing, and where the hell have you been?" Lance hadn't come into the cabin when Cortez showed them in. Instead, he had wandered off, and no one had seen him since. That seemed extremely suspicious to Vince, but no one else had noticed, or they appeared not to, and of course he wasn't about to say something about it.  
  
"I was just about exploring the ship, man," Lance said, recognizing the question lingering behind Vince's dark eyes. He smiled to himself. It was interesting how he understood Tommy's younger brother now. He was beginning to see what Maria meant when she said if you hung around the guy for long enough, you learned to know. He was satisfied with that. He doubted a lot of people had known Vince for the period of time required to acquire the skill, and he felt blessed to be counted among the few.  
  
He took a seat on the chair next to Vince, his eyes flickering up to see just what Vince was so interested in. He didn't see anything to his specific liking, so he looked back down, sizing the young man beside him up. "Good God man, you look like you're ready to start another World War over there," he grumbled, and it was completely true. Vince was armed to the teeth with pistols, various types of explosives, blades, and a sniper rifle, which was balanced across his lap. Under his chair rested a fully operational mini-gun, automatic and ready to go in for the kill. He had the extra strings of bullets in every pocket he had, from his cargo pants on up. The mini-gun could hold a good five hundred shells at a time, but Vince wasn't a man to be caught under prepared. "Doesn't all that stuff weigh you down?"  
  
Vince looked at him for a long moment, as if he was trying to memorize his features. Then he shrugged.  
  
"Yeah," Lance said with a small frown. "Somehow, I knew you were going to say that." There passed another few minutes of eerie, and rather uncomfortable silence between them. They weren't friends, nor was it suspected that they ever could be. While they appeared to be in the same business, their methods of execution were entirely too different to be considered a compliment to one another.  
  
Quite suddenly, the loud, rattling sounds of bullet behind expelled from hot gun barrels with violent force filled the sky. The thumping blades of approaching helicopters accented the sound like a massive, chugging train behind a fireworks display. Revving motors and the blue and red sirens of Coast Guard patrol vehicles added to the cacophony until it was all that could be heard. More quickly than was appeared possible, Cortez's yacht was surrounded, bullet ricocheting of its crafted hull. Spotlights swept over the water and onto the boat's deck, washing the entire area with a painful white blaze. Both Vince and Lance were clearly started, but while Lance jumped, his body reacting first, Vince's mind jumped into gear, realizing that something was terribly wrong, that the yacht was under siege. Forcing himself to move with a speed that he didn't know he was capable of, he rolled sideways off the deck chair, pulled the mini-gun out and booked it to the upper levels. He knew that's where the action would take place. The top deck was wide and open, without an overhang for protection like the other floors had. Ignoring the fact that venturing up top would place him in more danger than he could ever imagine, he kept his pace, juggling the mini-gun and his sniper rifle. After a few seconds, without slowing down, Vince managed to sling the rifle over his shoulder by its strap and reposition the mini-gun.  
  
He tore up the stairs, swinging the mini-gun up to allow him a better change of ascending the stairs without slowing. He muttered something about the "goddamned" heaviness of the gun very quietly under his breath. He reached the top of the staircase and brought the gun back down into a better carrying location, nearly pitching forward as the weight of the weapon pulled at his arms, aided by gravity. Out of breath and exhausted, he made for the main railing of the deck.  
  
War had already broken, and it was astounding to Vince, considering how quickly he had managed to react. He faced the inevitable fact that speed was on the side of the law. They simply worked more rapidly than he could ever hope to. There were too many of them. Being outnumbered was starting to look like a fact of battle here. Vercetti was on top of the stretched cloth canopy that protected the stairs leading to the main control room. He was leaned back, like one relaxing in a hammock, with the scope on a rocket launcher pressed to his eye. He was taking down the circle helicopters, picking them off one by one. Spare rockets rested at his side.  
  
Rosenberg was nowhere to be seen, and Vince figured it was safe to assume that the lawyer was cowering somewhere below decks. Vince hadn't really pegged the man as one to wield a gun with any type of accuracy, so he wasn't surprised. Cortez's hired sailors were aiding Vercetti in all the ways they saw possible, shooting law enforcers attempting to board the yacht from smaller boats, or from the helicopters. Maria and Mercedes were positioned on either side of the deck, firing below with high caliber handguns and occasionally dropping a grenade off. The boat rocked with the explosions triggered by both sides, and the hull groaned a deep protest. That made Vince increasingly nervous.  
  
Something had to be done about the patrol units that had taken up motoring around the yacht like hungry lions looking for the long-awaited kill. Vince wrestled with his pocket, which didn't seem fond of the idea of letting go of the device that would allow the mini-gun to rotate on an axis. He pulled it free with an angry snarl and went about setting the gun up. That done, he began to fire on the vehicles in the water below. Boat engines began to explode under Vince's sway as he shot with deadly accuracy. Eliminating the threat as briskly, Vince turned and dropped to the floor. Sitting there, with his back against the four-bar railing, he readied his sniper rifle, looked through the scope, and began to fire upon helicopter pilots.  
  
With Vince's assistance, Vercetti managed to remain unharmed while he attempted the reload his rocket launcher. Helicopter pilots were meeting a gruesome fate with each report from Vince's gun, and more than one of them tumbled out of their respective aircrafts and either into the water or onto the ship's deck. Vercetti allowed sweat to sting his eyes as he desperately tried to arm his weapon. Something wasn't working right, and it was jamming. He growled and shot a glance in Vince's direction.  
  
The younger Vercetti wasn't fairing very well. Under fire from above, behind, and both sides, Vince struggled to maintain accurate aim, at the same time squirming around to avoid being capped in the ass. With each bullet that whizzed impossibly close to his head, he flinched, his hand trembling. Vercetti gritted his teeth and let out a whoosh of air in silent frustration.  
  
"Goddamn it," he cried. "Did they send their entire fucking fleet after us?"  
  
Vince didn't reply of course. He was too busy trying to get clear shots at the pilots so that the hovering helicopters would not get the impending chance to fire their missiles. That would be a great way to end his thirty years of life on this earth, being blown into oblivion by some asshole in a chopper, just because he was too stupid to aim. Vince shook his head. He'd be damned if he went out like that. He heard a loud grinding noise, as whatever was impeding Vercetti's rocket launcher fell loose. The weapon was ready to cause destruction again. Vince breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
"Boats, Vince," Vercetti called, but his younger brother was already up and operating the mini-gun again, having hastily abandoned his sniper rifle. A few of the smaller boats met a fiery end, but Vince made a mistake then, too caught up in what he was endeavoring to do to notice the danger. One of the police drivers died in a mass of blood, his entire head exploding due to a bullet's influence. His boat remained unscathed, however, and with the weight of the dead captain on its controls, it careened out of control and hit the right side of the yacht's bow with dynamite results. The ship bucked violently, and Vince lost his already shaky balance. Before he could catch himself, he stumbled back and plummeted over the railing.  
  
His hand caught the lowest bar of the railing before he fell into the watery abyss below, but he nearly lost the tenuous grip when Mercedes tumbled over the side and nearly took him with her. With a growl, he grabbed her wrist, and there they dangled, hoping and praying nothing drastic would occur. Unfortunately, they didn't have much of a chance. Under the rocking of the yacht and the hail of bullets from all directions, plus the added weight of Mercedes so compensate for, Vince's fragile hold on the bar began to slip.  
  
"Tommy! Help," Mercedes shouted desperately. Vercetti hadn't had the time to pay much attention to what was going on around him. His attention was focused on the helicopters, the entire army of them that seemed to be regenerating out of nowhere. New crafts seemed to be materializing out of thin air. He was beginning to wonder when the supply was going to run out. He managed to pry his eyes away from his work at the sound of Mercedes's frightening plea.  
  
"Jesus Christ," he exclaimed just as the Hunter copter above him unleashed a barrage of gunfire from its twin mounted machine guns. The pilot had taken the distraction of Vercetti's attention to his advantage. Big mistake. Vercetti let loose a rocket and it blew the Hunter into the deep recesses of Hell. The impact of the blast threw Vercetti back off the canopy. He smashed into the railing under Vince's mini-gun so hard that his breath left him. He coughed dryly and blinking blood away from his eyes.  
  
Meanwhile, Vince lost his grasp on the railing and he and Mercedes plunged down the side of the boat at a break-neck speed, rushing toward the murky water with remarkable force. Vince knew they were both done for; they would be sucked under, suffocated, or the ship's engines would take them and destroy them. He closed his eyes, the inevitable helplessness taking him over. Just below him, Mercedes voiced her fear shrilly, obviously unwilling to accept her fate.  
  
They hit the water hard, and it was shockingly cold. Vince didn't let it phase him. He began to swim as fast as he could in a haphazard, diagonal line to keep from being brought under the sway of the ship's massive, spinning propellers. He grabbed Mercedes, who was failing about and splashing water in all directions. She calmed slightly when she realized what he was trying to do. Vince tried to move away, but his strength was quickly fading. He cursed the weapons he carried. Lance had been right. They did weigh him down. He was about to give up when someone grabbed him by the collar, and he was hauled into a small, inflatable, but durable, patrol vehicle. Vince looked at the Coast Guard officers from where he lay on the floor of the boat through bleared vision. Oh well. Better busted than chopped into tiny pieces and scattered for fish food. With that though in mind, his world faded into blackness.  
  
"Goddamn it! What the hell does it take to get some peace and quiet around here," Vercetti demanded loudly. He wasn't talking to anyone in particular. He was too busy sniping people with Vince's rifle to be bothered with any kind of human interaction. "What did I do to deserve this shit?"  
  
The battle continued to rage for what seemed like hours stacked upon hours. Bullets flew and people fell. Blood of all types stained the deck and turned large patches of the ocean a deep scarlet. What remained of the Coast Guard boats smoldered, scattered about, releasing a dull hissing as fire fought with water. The yacht continued to move, it's inner workings clanking as it chugged along. By the time Vercetti and Cortez's men managed to persuade the law enforcers into retreating, the sun was peeking over the Vice City's skyline. The sky glowed a vibrant pink, the clouds shadowing in purple splendor. The sounds of the battle had faded, only to ring forever in the ears of the soldiers who heard them.  
  
Vercetti was sitting with his back against the railing where he hand landed in the first place after he had fallen off the canopy. He sucked in great breaths, releasing them in shuddering gusts. Vince's sniper rifle was still clutched in his white-knuckled first. Ken Rosenberg approached him cautiously, not looking to get shot this early in the morning. He picked his way through narrow paths between bleeding bodies and bullet casings.  
  
Vercetti raised the gun to defend himself without looking up to watch Rosenberg's advancement. The lawyer's eyes immediately widened and he dove for cover behind the canopy, honestly fearing Vercetti would pull the trigger. "Ah! Tommy, it's me, Ken! Sweet Jesus," he exclaimed. Vercetti lowered the gun and looked up, his eyes taking a split second to focus.  
  
"Where the hell have you been," he asked, knowing full-well the answer. Rosenberg was never a stickler for guns. The machines scared the hell out of him, and Vercetti was aware of the fact.  
  
"Ah, well you see, Tommy. You know how much I favor gun control and all. I-- "  
  
Vercetti cut him off. "Never mind. That doesn't matter now." He used the railing to help him to his feet, and he allowed the sniper rifle to clatter to the ground. The sound shattered the silence of death around him like a gun shot in a cemetery. How ironic. Vercetti leaned back against the barrier once he had himself standing, not trusting himself to be steady enough to stand on his own. For a moment he looked pensive. "We have work to do," he announced. "Where's Lance?"  
  
Rosenberg shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, Tommy. I haven't seen him since we got on the ship."  
  
Vercetti's expression darkened, and for a moment, Rosenberg thought the anger was directed at him. He readied himself to jump back behind the canopy. Vercetti growled something under his breath and then pushed past the lawyer. "Come on, Ken; find Maria, and meet me on the bridge. It's time to end this."  
  
***************************************************************  
  
Shorter than my other chapters perhaps, but jam-packed with GTA goodness. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I have fun writing, although I have just proved myself inadequate in writing action sequences. I beg your forgiveness. Also, I wanted to point out that if would be much appreciated if people would review on individual chapters, so I can get a feel for what work needs to be done. Saying "good story" is fun and appreciated, but it doesn't tell me where I need to improve. Please! Give me a smaller area to fuss with. Thanks, I'll shut up now.  
  
- Maverick Point 


	10. Revelation

About the time Vercetti was running about the yacht trying to locate Colonel Cortez, Vince was waking up in an unfamiliar, yet all too familiar place. He was in a room made of three cement walls, which pressed in menacingly like looming shrouds of the Black Death. Directly in front of him rested the forth wall, which unlike it's compatriots, was shedding light on his rather bleak situation. That one wall was fortified by the hard steel bars of a state holding cell, Vincent knew, without a doubt. The bars were separated into two sets positioned vertically within their respective square frames. While the bar set on the right was situated on a track to allow it to roll and act like a door, the one of the right remained stationary.  
  
Vince understood where he was and what was happening, and he didn't like it. Momentarily panicked, not knowing how he managed to land himself here again, he bolted upright, his eyes shifting around the despicable place wildly. He was sitting on a standard prison cot, which was little more than a paper-thin mattress splayed on a two inch thick piece of iron. It hung horizontally (for the most part) with one side against the wall at a slightly crooked angle, suspended by a pair of rusting, and quickly deteriorating, chains like a lopsided drawbridge. Somewhere in the cell water dripped incessantly, and the dim lighting made the close walls and blackening metal doors look all the more daunting. Vince ran a weary hand through his dark hair as the night's event came flooding back to him. He remembered why he was here now, so he relaxed, glancing at the floor. He wasn't worried because he figured the Feds would simply send him back to New York and try to lock him up there. He was a wanted criminal there more than he was down in this godforsaken city. They could attempt it until they were blue in the face, but Vincent Vercetti was not one to keep his wrists in the cuffs. Everyone remembers how well his last trip on a prison convoy went, and it wasn't pretty.  
  
His hair and clothes were still damp, and he shivered, not because it was cold, but because he was wet. He squeaked his shoe against the floor and was about test the limits of his consciousness by standing up and moving to the bars to see what was stirring, but a voice stopped him.  
  
"It's about time, you know. I was beginning to think you were dead, and that they were just keeping you here to look at you and whisper to each other about their grand catch, like you were some sort of trophy."  
  
Vince forgot about getting up and jumped in surprise instead. What the hell? Who was in the cell with him? Did they usually throw more than one person in a joint like this? He figured there were other cells, and he was the one to get shoved in with a stranger? One thing Vincent could not stand was a stranger. He scoffed. The damn police probably knew it and planned it that way. They put him in here when he didn't have the chance to complain, not that he would have. He narrowed his eyes, his hand going to the small of his back where he usually kept a small pistol tucked into his waistband, but of course it wasn't there anymore.  
  
A soft laugh wafted to his ears through the darkness, and somehow he was comforted. "Jumpy little bastard aren't you there, Vince. Relax, it's just me."  
  
Vince frowned. He recognized the voice as belonging to Mercedes, and he wondered why he hadn't thought it was indeed her when he first heard her speak. Another thing worried him, and it was a strange feeling. He hoped she was all right, and that she hadn't been harmed. It was a confusing sensation because he wasn't at all used to feeling sorry for himself, let alone anyone else. It was what allowed him to kill without ever looking back.  
  
He blinked at her through the dim light, trying to make out her features. She was sitting across the small radius of the cell on the opposite cot wrapped in a gray, woolen blanket. Vince shook his head; she was definitely a sorry sight. Mascara dripped down her cheeks, her hair was completely disheveled, and she almost glowed through the paleness of her face. He ran a hand through his own hair and squinted at her pallid and almost scared looking expression, and he nearly felt sorry for her. He looked down at his feet.  
  
Mercedes sniffled, rubbing a slender finger along the underside of her nose. "You know, we've really landed ourselves quite a bit of trouble. I never imagined it would ever come to this, at least not with Tommy around. My only hope is that he can get the hell out of here. The last thing he needs is to be caught."  
  
Vince jumped up, nearly toppling over in the process, shaking his head violently. Mercedes immediately stopped speaking, knowing that she had said something terribly wrong. Vince clenched his hand into tight fist. He gestured to himself and then at the wall to the right, on the opposite side of the bars. Still, while displaying such a frantic emotion, he made no sound, and Mercedes didn't get it for a moment. Then it hit her.  
  
"You don't want him to leave you here, do you?"  
  
Vince stopping shaking his head and looked at her, his expression half worried and half melancholy. His shoulders jumped in a small shrug, and he glanced at the wall again. He wondered, in all actuality, if his brother would ever bother coming back for him, and if not for him, then for Mercedes. It was a puzzle to Tommy's heart, and Vince couldn't help but wonder if Mercedes had managed to solve it. He doubted it. There was the sound of jingling keys and a latch being lifted, and both prisoners looked toward the barred wall as Lance Vance was thrown roughly into the diminutive quarter. The man skipped a few steps, trying to find the balance to remain standing, failed, and fell, skidding across the floor a short distance. Almost immediately, he was up and yelling. Vince watched him frantically brush himself off, attempting to rid his white soirée of jail room grime. He was unsuccessful, but in the in end of the motion, he seemed satisfied.  
  
"Hey," Lance cried indignantly, "watch the suit, man! Do you have any idea the stack of cash this thing cost me? Boy, I swear this piece of sharp outer wear is worth more than you, of ten of you! Ya miserable little twerp!" He checked himself over once again, twisting around to inspect his shirttails. He appeared placated by what he saw, even though there was a large smear of dust across his shoulder blades.  
  
Mercedes took time to wonder what would happen to a poor old sap who had terrible allergies in a place like this. The on-duty prison warden didn't exactly in tuned with the whole idea of housekeeping. She supposed it didn't really matter. She watched Vince sit down and lean back against the wall. He seemed particularly antsy, and she wondered why. Her attention shifted back to Lance.  
  
The guard that had deposited Lance into the cell slammed the sliding door shut, grumbling something under his breath about good-for-nothings. "Watch it, asshole," he muttered. Lance pretended not to hear him. Instead, he took in his surroundings, placing one hand on his hip. He shook he head at the poor conditions, and his wandering eyes finally fell upon his cellmates.  
  
"Ah, they got you here too? It sucks, doesn't it?"  
  
Vince stared at him, his dark eyes searching the man's face for something he was sure wasn't there. Something about Lance and this whole stupid mess just didn't sit right, didn't add up. After a moment of Vince's intense glare, Lance decided to talk to Mercedes instead. She was much better company anyway. He turned to her only to discover that she too was looking at him rather suspiciously.  
  
"Lance, where were you during the whole fight on my father yacht? I don't think I saw you once during the whole scuffle. You're not one to tuck tail and run, so where were you hiding?" Mercedes simply gave voice to Vince's thoughts, and he leaned forward expectantly, waiting for the answer. He somehow doubted that Lance would concoct a very good excuse in the three seconds he had to do so before Vince was prepared to beat the truth out of him.  
  
"I was below decks," Lance answered smoothly. It sounded rehearsed, and Vince wasn't buying it. Lance continued anyway, oblivious to Vince's skeptical look. "The law guys were everywhere on the boat. You people were all up top, so I figured it was better to guard a scarcely taken care of area rather than do so in one so heavy laden with you guys and all your guns."  
  
Vince narrowed his eyes, giving him a very odd look. Lance frowned at him, moving to standing closer to the back wall of the cell, wondering if the younger Vercetti was going to go for his throat. He wouldn't put it past him. However, the worst failed to happen, and all attention shifted to the arrival of Special Agents Graydon Creed and Patrick Ford as they approached the cell and stood in a nearly identical stance just out of range of someone reaching through the bars.  
  
Ford folded his arms across his chest, looking at the three criminals with a critical eye. Damn it felt good to see these people locked up and on display. "So, here you are. The great Vincent Vercetti. The man who escaped from prison and single-handedly sent Liberty City, New York to Hell." He paused and waited for a response of any kind, basking in the glow of his victory. Vince didn't say anything. He simply looked at his shoes, so Ford went on. "Just so you know, because you found it to be a good idea to turn your back on us back at Kaufman Cabs, your record will remain as it stands. You'll be tried on every offense you've manage to carry out up there. Not only that, but Liberty City will finally know your name. You're being transferred the day after tomorrow, because frankly, I don't want to deal with you. Good luck, kid. You're going away from a very long time." Vince looked at him, his face expressionless. Hasty observation might erroneously confirm that he hadn't even heard a word the agent had said, but truth was, Vince heard everything, saw everything. He was always alert, never liking to let anything slip past him. His concentrated gaze transferred to Lance, who was still standing in the shadow of the back wall. Lance shifted his weight, betraying his nervousness. Vince had that way about him, his dark eyes seeming perpetually hard with anger. It was as if the very fires of Hell burned somewhere deep within them. Given his way of life, it was a likely concept.  
  
Creed cleared his throat, rocking back onto his heels and clasping his hands behind his back, relatively confident that he wasn't going to topple over in any direction. "I take it you don't have anything to say for yourselves," he said slowly. He looked at Mercedes first, and the at Vince, who didn't acknowledge him. Somehow, that was the response he had expected. Everyone remained silent. "Guess not." His eyes moved over to Lance. "What about you Mister Vance? Let's go. We'll talk."  
  
Lance began to walk forward, gathering his self-composure up. The guard who had tossed him into the cell in the first place returned, sorting through a massive key ring. He was obviously unhappy with the idea of letting Lance out. He would have rather watched him rot behind bars. Vince stood in Lance's path, stopping the progress forward.  
  
"Get out of the way, man. I've got places I need to be," Lance said easily, slipping past Vince and shooting a glance at Mercedes, who looked back at him rather distastefully, but her eyes were full of hurt, for Lance had once been a trusted friend of hers. As much as she hated him right now, she dreaded what Tommy would do to him when he found out what happened.  
  
The cell door came open and Lance darted out, prompting the guard to quickly slam it shut again, for Vercetti was hot on his heels. His slammed against the bars, his face still unreadable, but his eyes dangerous. He back away from the wall, his eyes following Lance as Creed led him away.  
  
"Temper, temper Mister Vercetti," Ford murmured as he followed, but even as he said it, he stepped closer to the wall, putting as much distance between him and the cell as possible. Vince was not a good man to be around when he was angry. Not in any case.  
  
Lance glanced over his shoulder. "How's your witness protection program? You do have one, right?"  
  
**********************************  
  
Even as Lance spilled the beans about Vercetti's organization, Vercetti himself smelled a rat. He, accompanied by Rosenberg and Maria, was purposefully striding along the boardwalk on Ocean Beach. Vercetti had apologized profusely to Cortez for the trouble and the damage, and he managed to convince the colonel that all would be set straight. Vercetti had left still saying he was sorry for such an inconvenience, and while Cortez had heartily laughed it off, Vercetti still knew that the yachtsman's number one concern was his daughter. He wanted her back safely, and Vercetti was not in the mood to fail him.  
  
The yacht returned the trio to the pier and Cortez has said his farewell and wished good luck all around. There were many repairs to be made on the boat, and he was anxious to get them done before he found himself learning how to breathe underwater. He reminded Vercetti of his cell phone number and other contacts so that Vercetti could call when Mercedes was out of imprisonment. Vercetti promised the call would come. With that, the plan was set in his mind, and there the three of them strolled down the sand, next to the boardwalk, but strangely not on it.  
  
Vercetti was a considerably foul mood as he stumbled along in the sand. Rosenberg came to the conclusion that it would be a bad idea to complain about the sand in his shoes, or to ask any kind of inquiry. Vercetti was clearly not in the mood. He trudged along, slightly behind the leader of the pack, hand in the pockets of his pants, watching his feet. Maria moved along side of him, her eyes focused out across the blue waters of the ocean which lapped at the sand feebly, as the tide had no risen yet. She was silent for a long moment before the inclination to speak up overwhelmed her.  
  
"I'm worried," she stated softly. "Vince was never good in closed up spaces."  
  
"I'm sure he'll be fine," Vercetti answered gruffly.  
  
"Tommy," Rosenberg began slowly, "If you don't mind me asking, where are we going, and what are we going to do now?" Vercetti remained quiet, and for a short period of time, Rosenberg wasn't even sure he had even heard the question. It was true that Vercetti was lost in his own world of thought, debating his different options and writing a list of pros and cons, but he wasn't so tied up mentally that he was going to leave the lawyer hanging there waiting for an answer.  
  
"I'll tell you what we're going to do now," he said suddenly, stopping in mid-stride and turning on both Rosenberg and Maria so unexpectedly that they nearly ran right into him. Vercetti shook his head. "We're going to exterminate some vermin. Someone has been ratting out or locations. There ain't no way the cops could have known we were on that boat. We've got a leak, and I think I know who it is." Vercetti, now facing his two companions, gestured furiously with one hand as he spoke, clearly worked up.  
  
"Who is it," Maria inquired carefully.  
  
"You'll see when we get there. That is, of course if all this goes according to plan. I don't see any reason why it shouldn't though. I have most things in place in my head. All we have to do it get started," Vercetti answered, turning around again and resuming his quick pace.  
  
"Where are we going?" Rosenberg risked speaking again.  
  
"Vice Port."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because there we'll find the equipment we need to initiate a jail break." Vercetti said it so casually that Rosenberg nearly passed it up as normal conversation material. Then he shook his head and came to his senses.  
  
"What? Hey, Tommy, what?"  
  
Vercetti turned around again, but this time, Maria and Rosenberg managed to stop in time to do so without stumbling. "Listen to me," Vercetti said seriously, "this is very simple. We're going to get my brother and Mercedes out of the joint, and then we're going to find our rat and kill him."  
  
Both his compatriots started at him for a moment as if they didn't understand the language he was speaking. It wasn't until Vercetti spun around again and continued on his way that they broke out of their silent trance. Maria furrowed her brow.  
  
"Oh. Makes sense to me," she said.  
  
"Perfect sense," Rosenberg agreed with a nod.  
  
The followed Vercetti out of the basin of sand and onto the concrete path at the far end of the beach. Vercetti leaned against on the pillars that supported the long chains bordering the boardwalk and systematically emptied his shoes of sand. Rosenberg and Maria exchanged glances and did the same. Once that was finished, Vercetti led them into an alley where a convertible sat, having been left by some beachgoer who was certain the car was secure. Vercetti hopped over the driver's side door and pulled out the wiring panel. He hotwired the car and unlocked the doors as the engine roared to life. Vercetti gestured for the other members of his group to join him in the car. They did. It was a car meant only for two people: a driver and a passenger, so it was a tight fit. Maria had to squeeze between a very irritated Vercetti and a Rosenberg who was jabbering endlessly about the benefits of a quick hotwiring job. Vercetti pulled the car out onto the street, swinging the steering wheel around for a wide left turn, successfully hitting Maria in the face with his elbow. He came to the conclusion that the car was way too crowded. Yet, he didn't feel like finding a new one, so he promptly apologized and kept driving.  
  
"We're going to see a friend of Vince's," he said. "You may know him, Maria. He goes by the name of 8-Ball. He's supposed to be the best bomb technician out there these days. I hear he's holed up somewhere in Vice Port."  
  
"Yeah," Maria replied. "8-Ball moved down here after the Yakuza empire fell back up in Liberty."  
  
"But Vice Port is a huge region, so I'm going to need help finding him," Vercetti continued as if he had never been interrupted. He jerked to the right to avoid a head on collision with a city bus. "Not to worry though. There are plenty of resources in this town. I know someone who just might know where a guy like 8-Ball decided to hole up."  
  
"Who," Rosenberg wanted to know.  
  
"You remember Avery, don't you?"  
  
"Oh, so we--"  
  
"Bingo."  
  
***********************************  
  
A/N: Hi everyone! So sorry for the late update. I've been up to my eyeballs in stuff to do. This chapter's kind of boring and I am so sorry for that. I'll make up for it later. You have my word. Once again, I urge you to review this so I can know how much I suck and all. I'll be happy to return the favor on any of your work. Oh, and by the way, if anyone out there is a fan of my character Vincent, check out my other story "Getting to Know the Reaper" and review there. Anyway, thanks!! 


	11. Bombs Away

Avery Carrington's massive construction site stood on the far side of Vice Point, hard to miss with its partially built glass structure and red support beams. Carrington was a big gun in the field on aggressive real estate on both of Vice City's islands, and the way Vercetti had it figured, if anyone would know where a guy like 8-Ball had been inclined to set up shot, he would definitely be the person. Vercetti pulled the convertible car as close to the curb outside site as he dared without actually driving onto the sidewalk. The local authorities tended to frown on parking jobs like that.  
  
Shifting to avoid hitting Maria again, Vercetti popped open the door and climbed out, grateful for the small favor of getting out of the way-too- crowded little vehicle. As he worked on smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt, Maria crawled over the seat and exited behind him. He turned around and nearly plowed her right over. With an embarrassed laugh, he moved her out of his way, guiding her by the shoulders and closed the door. Rosenberg came around from the other side of the car and joined them on the sidewalk. Vercetti led them past the site's outer gate.  
  
Carrington's sleek, black limousine pulled out from it's haven under the half-constructed frame of the building as if on cue. Vercetti raised an eyebrow, wondering how whoever it was that was driving that car for Carrington always knew exactly when visitors came. Sure, he supposed that the guy could just look out the window and see people standing there, but it was as if he knew. The limousine had pulled out in that exact fashion ever other time Vercetti had called upon Carrington's services. It was creepy. Vercetti had helped the aging westerner "persuade" a few business owners into selling their property to make way for better profit, and they were more than happy to accommodate.  
  
As the limousine rolled to a stop, Vercetti stepped forward and opened the back door, not bothering to wait for the vehicle to cease its movement. He shot a glance backward and silently instructed Rosenberg and Maria to wait for him by the convertible. Neither of them were too keen on squishing into the back of the car with Vercetti and Carrington anyway, so they nodded in understanding.  
  
"Tommy! Good to see you son; it's been a little too long. What do you think," Carrington immediately boomed in his thick Texan drawl as Vercetti slid into the seat across from him and pulled the door closed. Carrington was nearing his mid-fifties, sporting a gray handlebar mustache and matching hair that was slicked back against his head. He wore a somewhat tacky western style shirt and black jeans, bottomed off with silver-toed leather boots. Vercetti liked doing business with him because he knew just the right kind of jobs to give. The kind that he needed done, and the kind Vercetti enjoyed doing.  
  
"Hello Avery. How have you been?" Vercetti let his eyes wonder around the car. They flickered over wine bottles, hard liquor flasks, crystal Champaign glasses and a small television set turned at a slight angle. Carrington was busy straightening his cowboy hat on his head. It was completely obvious that he had just risen from the deep throes of sleep. Vercetti began to wonder if the man lived in the limousine or something weird like that. He immediately shook the though off, regarding it as stupid, but it still remained in the back of his head as a plausible possibility.  
  
"Fine, fine. Business has been through the roof since the last time our paths crossed. I attribute it all to your and you demolition work, my friend. Anyway, enough garble. What can I do for you on this fine day?" Carrington leaned forward and poured himself a drink. He offered one to Vercetti, who declined politely, and he smiled, remembered that Vercetti was a clean thinker.  
  
"I need to know if you've sold, or have heard of any sale of, property to a guy by the name of 8-Ball," Vercetti said with a smirk, watching Carrington swirl the vodka around in his wine glass. If he really did live in this car, it would be a major shock. The guy seemed so high class. Vercetti wondered where it was that a man like Carrington would live anyway.  
  
"8-Ball you say?" Carrington rubbed at his mustache in a show of thought. The name "8-Ball" was certainly not a common one, and he figured he would definitely remember someone by that identification if he had indeed met the man. It was difficult to say though, because many of the people who came through his business didn't like using their true names, or even the names they were known by. He doubted 8-Ball was the guy's true name. He was about to tell Vercetti that it was difficult to say, simply because the name didn't register in his mind, when he had an epiphany. "Oh, I know who you're talking about. A loud, bomb-toting young man who was babbling about 'all the right stuff for another holocaust', right?"  
  
Vercetti nodded. He didn't know what 8-Ball could mean by talking about a holocaust, but he could safely assume that he had meant that he wanted to open up a bomb-rigging service like the one he was known for back in Liberty City. There was plenty of use for one of those down in Florida for sure. It seemed that everyone around wanted to see something, anything, blow into kingdom come. "That's him," Vercetti confirmed vocally.  
  
"Yeah, I set him up in one of those premium two-story studio apartments in the very farthest corner of Vice Port. He had use of a good eight garages from there. He was really big on garages, don't ask me why. I don't want to know. You might be able to spot the little alley I got for him from that car dealership of yours. It's somewhere near the airport. I'm bad with directions," Carrington replied, taking a sip of his drink.  
  
"All right," Vercetti said with another comprehending nod. As bad as the charismatic Texan real estate tycoon may have been at giving directions to a place he himself had sold, it was still enough to get Vercetti to where he needed to go. It was adequate. "Thanks Avery. I'll see you later." Vercetti opened the door and began to climb out.  
  
"Come back when you've got your work done. I've been having some problems with the Haitians. I'd really appreciate it if you'd help them to know their place, if you know what I mean," Carrington as Vercetti left. Vercetti nodded his acknowledgement and closed the door of the limousine. He ran a hand through his short brown hair and watched the car back up and disappear deeper into the site. He shook his head, wondering where it had to go back there.  
  
Rosenberg was leaning against the side of the convertible, looking as if he should be smoking a cigarette and posing for a Rolex advertisement. Maria was sitting on the car's hood, looking at the early morning sky, hoping it wasn't going to open up and pour down rain. That was the last thing any of them needed. Plus, she was worried about Vince, because Vince had always been particular about small spaces. She only hoped he wouldn't freak out. It wasn't Vince's style to do that anyway, but she hoped he wouldn't lose his cool. He was known for doing that on occasion.  
  
Vercetti folded his arms across his chest and waited for them to take notice to them. When they did, he motioned for them to get into the car. They did so, and Vercetti climbed into the driver's seat. He shifted around until he found a position that would be comfortable for all those present, and then turned the key. "Okay," he said, "now all we need is a police car."  
  
"What the hell for," Maria asked, shoving Rosenberg over a little to the point that he was pressed up against the door. He, in turn, looked at the lock nervously, praying that it wouldn't give and spill him out onto the street, especially at the speeds Vercetti was known to like to drive at.  
  
"You'll see," Vercetti answer with a little mystery in his voice. He smiled a little and revved the engine before remembered that he had to put the car into the correct gear. He moved the shift and backed up, turning the wheel around to the left. Then he shifted the car again and put his foot down, gunning it down the street, weaving in and out of traffic like one possessed.  
  
************************************************  
  
By the time the trio managed to exit the horrific traffic on the on bridge that led into Vice Port, it was nearly noon. All lanes were jam-packed with suit-and-tie commuters trying to get to one place or another. Normally, it wouldn't have been a problem for Vercetti, because he would have just plowed his way through. Today, however, the traffic was in such grid-lock that waiting his turn had been his only option. Vercetti didn't like being stuck with no way out, so it was a very infuriating couple of hours.  
  
The sun had climbed high into the sky on it's twelve hour ladder, and it peered down upon the glitz and glamour of Vice City from its lofty perch. It's sole mission was to shine directly into the eyes of hapless drivers on the streets. Vercetti cursed sotto voce and raised his hand to block the sun's rays. It was generally a good thing to be able to see where he was going. Maria had fallen asleep against his shoulder sometime during the four and a half hour traffic jam coming across the bridge, so he took special care not to disturb her.  
  
Vercetti pulled into the front parking lot of Sunshine Autos, the repair and dealership he had purchased late last year, sometime not terribly long ago. The exact time had escaped his mind. He turned the convertible around to face the street again and put the car into park, listening to the engine idle quietly. He squinted, trying to gain his bearings. He knew where he was, but it was difficult to gauge exactly where it was that he needed to be.  
  
Carrington had informed him of an alleyway somewhere close the airport. There were a lot of little passageways around, but none that Vercetti would have considered an alleyway. He kept an eye out for a row of garages to, as those seemed to be 8-Ball's calling cards, where he set up his shops. His gaze finally flickered across the tiny opening squeezed between two tall buildings, and it took him a long moment of sitting and staring blankly before he came to realize that he had found it.  
  
"Got it," he announced proudly, albeit a little too loudly.  
  
Rosenberg jerked, jarred out of his light sleep, which was slightly induced with the line of cocaine he had decided to introduce into his system back when Vercetti was in the limousine with Avery Carrington. "What," he slurred, "are we there? What's going on? Where are we?" His eyes were wide behind his thick glasses, as if he was panicked, or he had forgotten what had happened in the past two days completely. With all the drugs he had been taking recently, Vercetti didn't put it past him.  
  
"We're at Sunshine Autos. You know, that place that I run," Vercetti informed in a solid, reserved tone, making sure to speak slowly as to be sure that Rosenberg understood every word. The nervous wreck of a lawyer wasn't exactly the brightest crayon in the box to begin with, but adding narcotics into the mix made him like a goldfish. He has a memory span of about two minutes when he was high, and it made Vercetti want to punch him. "But remember, Ken, we're going to head Downtown in a few seconds because I need to get a police car. Do you have an recollection of that at all?"  
  
Rosenberg stared at him blankly.  
  
Vercetti sighed. "Forget it. Just go back to sleep." Abruptly, he put the car back into gear and swung it back out on to the road. He looped around the back end of the city, putting his own fancy steering and the car's screaming traction to the test. He passed Folded Tactics Boat Yard, averting his eyes only briefly to make sure everything was running smoothly over there, and then headed up to zoom on by Cherry Poppers Ice Cream Factory. He chuckled to himself. There hadn't been many places like that one in the past, and he doubted there ever would be again. Finally, he reached the northern part of town, coming up fast on the Ammunation before realizing with a soft curse that he had gone the wrong way. Turning the car rapidly, he righted his direction and came up on his destination from the opposite way that he had originally intended.  
  
It was all good and fine though. Vercetti was just glad to be out of the damn automobile. He popped open his door and nearly fell out onto the street. Squaring his shoulders, he stood up, stretching. Thankful for the use of his incredibly stiff legs, he walked around the car, admiring his parking job. Half on the sidewalk and half on the road was generally looked down upon, but at this point in time, Vercetti scarcely gave a shit. He rapped on the car's hood loudly with his knuckles in an attempt to jostle his companions out of unconsciousness. It worked, and Maria opened her eyes, yawning. Rosenberg was less than graceful and he started, afraid that the world might be ending or some such nonsense.  
  
Vercetti whistled and directed their attention to the police car that sat idling in the reserved parking space outside the station, crooking his finger. Maria shoved Rosenberg out of the car and they both followed their fearless leader as he slipped his hands casually into his pockets, strolling along slowly as not to attract any undue attention. Approaching the squad car, he risked a glance inside. Police officers had to be one of the stupidest breed of man. The car was unattended with unlocked doors and a running engine. Smirking at his luck, Vercetti opened the front door swiftly, not taking the chance that the perfect plan would be ruined by some random passerby, or by an officer exiting the station. He slid into the driver's seat as Rosenberg opened the passenger door. Maria moved into the middle of the back seat, separated from the two men by a steel grate.  
  
Vercetti pulled the car away from the curb, its tires protesting loudly as smoke rose into the air. Vercetti continued to gun the engine, his foot all the way down to the floor, knowing that sooner or later, the car would find its legs and go shooting off down the road. When it finally did, Vercetti nestled back into the comfortable seat and retraced his route back to Sunshine Autos.  
  
8-Ball's little alleyway turned out to be a lot narrower that Vercetti had anticipated, and it took quite some maneuvering to get the police car through to the wider area of the establishment unscathed. It was a precise practice, but Vercetti was a well trained artisan. Taking his time, and ignoring the impatient yammering of Rosenberg, who didn't quite understand why the squad car had to look untouched, Vercetti worked his way through and came out triumphant. The alley spanned out a bit once passed the tight entrance. It sported eight garages, spread out in a neat row along the left wall, and a small pedestal staircase leading up to a metal utility door on the opposite side.  
  
Vercetti and Rosenberg stepped out of the car, almost forgetting Maria, who couldn't open the car door from the inside, and examined the door, looking for an indication that they had come to the right place. The verification came rather quickly in the form a loud sign above the door that stated "8- Ball's Bomb Shop".  
  
"Inconspicuous, isn't he," Rosenberg articulated rather sarcastically.  
  
Vercetti decided it would be best to just ignore that little comment. Rosenberg had a strange knack for trying to be witty, but he always failed miserably. Instead of saying anything, he moved forward and skipped up the stone steps to the utility door under the sign. Looking around, he didn't see any kind of doorbell, so he figured he was supposed to knock or something. Somehow, it didn't seem like he should be knocking at the door of a place like this one, but he didn't have a choice. Shooting a glance behind him, he shrugged and turned back around, raising a fist to rap rather harshly on the entrance.  
  
The door almost immediately cracked open, catching on a chain lock when the space was about three inches wide. Vercetti frowned. The reaction time almost suggested that this guy 8-Ball had been expecting company. A pair of suspicious brown eyes set in the skull of a strongly built African American man of medium height appeared in the opening.  
  
"Yeah, who are you?"  
  
Vercetti moved to peer at him from the other side of the door. "You 8- Ball," he asked, knowing the answer but knowing of nothing else to say. Anyway, it was better to make sure. What if 8-Ball was somewhere in the back and this guy was just a front man. It was never unheard of. Vercetti had come to expect that nothing was ever unheard of. He'd seen a lot of weird stuff in his lifetime.  
  
"That depends on who's asking," the man replied. He repositioned himself so that Vercetti could see him a little better. The chain rattled against the door quietly, and Vercetti smiled. What a cliché. How was it that he knew this man was going to say that?  
  
"I'm a friend of a man you may know by the name of Vincent Vercetti," he answered.  
  
"Who? I don't know anyone by that name, man. You must have your billiard balls mixed up," the man said.  
  
"So you are 8-Ball. You do admit that, right," Vercetti said, a soft chuckle hiccupping his words a little. He leaned back against the metal railing around the stairs, visibly relaxed but still inwardly tense from the whole situation that surrounded him. Crossing his arms across his chest, he nodded to the man behind the door. "It's okay. I really am a friend of Vince's. I'm not trying anything."  
  
"Look, I really don't know who you're talking about," 8-Ball replied, his face reddening a little at having so boldly identifying himself without realizing it.  
  
"Of course you don't. That's because you've never heard anyone say his name. Tommy, people up in Liberty City know your brother as the Reaper," Maria chimed in, having successfully climbed out of the backseat of the car. "And no one tells them otherwise. Certainly not Vince."  
  
"Why the 'Reaper'?"  
  
"He's an efficient killer," 8-Ball answered. "When people see his face, they see death in all senses of the word. That gun of his is a tool of the Devil himself. Spawned right out of hell." He closed the door and released the chain, allowing the group to see him in his full form of the first time. Making the shape of a gun with his thumb and forefinger, he mimicked his friend and pretended to shoot Vercetti.  
  
"Oh. Right. Well anyway, like I was saying--"  
  
8-Ball abruptly cut him off. "Wait, did I hear that you're the Reaper's brother? And what did you say his name was? Vincent what now?"  
  
Vercetti looked a little flustered. All he wanted to do was spit his plan out, have it done, and go on with his life. "Vercetti I said. His name is Vincent Vercetti," he said, clearly irritated. "What the hell does that matter? You don't know him by that name anyway."  
  
"Yeah, but I know you. If the Reaper's your brother, and his name is Vercetti, than you've got to be Tommy, right?" At Vercetti's reluctant nod, 8-Ball suddenly leaped from the doorway, and before Vercetti even knew what was happening, 8-Ball was enthusiastically pumping his hand up and down in an overly excited handshake. "I've heard a lot about you."  
  
"What? Hey, come on, what are you doing? Let me go," Vercetti yelped, jerking his hand away.  
  
"You're the most famous gangster of them all up in Liberty, Tommy. I mean single-handedly you took down eleven men. You did it all by your damn self. People still talk about you. I get messages from the North with updates on your progress down here. I guess I just didn't put two and two together. Man, it's so great to meet you. You're legend," 8-ball said.  
  
Vercetti's expression darkened. Without warning, he lunged forward and grabbed 8-Ball by the collar of his shirt, backing him up until they were inside the tiny apartment. Slamming him against the nearest wall, Vercetti growled, "What the fuck do you know about me? You get updates? From who? What the hell do they say about me?"  
  
8-Ball was at a loss for words. He had been taken completely by surprise, and the mere presence of Tommy Vercetti right up in his face with that murderous look in his eyes was enough to deter him from making at kind of comment.  
  
"Talk you little shit! The last thing I need is to have Liberty City on my ass. I've got enough problems right now, you understand me? Now, I want to know what they say about me," Vercetti rumbled, his eyes dangerous, flickering with a redness that only suggested his psychopathic nature.  
  
"I--I don't fuckin' know Tommy. I'm part of the Leone Family. I get my updates from there! I don't even know if the Forelli family knows what it is that you're doing down here. For all they know you could still be stuck on those twenty kilos you lost. We don't share our information with Forelli! I swear to God man, I'm part of the Leone crew," 8-Ball stammered.  
  
Vercetti let him go. "You hear anything else about me. You find me."  
  
8-Ball nodded. "Yeah sure. Take it easy man. So what can I do for you?"  
  
Vercetti turned and walked back to the front stoop, clasping his hands behind his back. "My brother has landed himself in a bit of trouble. He got himself pinched in a scuffle out in the Vice Straights. We need some help getting him out."  
  
8-Ball joined him on the stoop and peered around to see the squad car parked where Maria and Rosenberg were both watching, a little shocked at what had just occurred. "Let me guess," he said. "You want me to rig some C4 to that car there so you can blow out the wall where your brother's being held."  
  
The gangster nodded. "Yep. That's just about the plan, I'd say."  
  
8-Ball scoffed. "Ah, give me a real challenge, yo. Come on and pull into my office here." He shrugged past Vercetti and hopped off the porch, over the railing with practiced ease. Crossing the tiny alley clearing, he stopped in front of a large garage door near the end of the line. He stooped down, grabbed the handle, and pushed it up. Inside was his laboratory. Vercetti smiled and jumped over the railing with equal grace and got behind the wheel of the car. He took his time guiding it inside. The cruiser would allow him undetected access through the prison gates, and the bomb would do the rest.  
  
"Remote controlled if you don't mind," he said, getting out and leaving 8- Ball to do his work. "I don't want to be blowing up randomly for no reason. You hear me?"  
  
8-Ball waved a hand at him dismissively. "Get out of here. You think I'm stupid or something?"  
  
"So that's what we needed the police car for," Rosenberg stated in final understanding. Maria rolled her eyes, watching Vercetti pull the garage door back down to conceal 8-Ball's shop.  
  
"And they wonder why I hate lawyers." 


	12. Jail Break

For a long time, there was nothing but the steady drip, drip, dripping of water somewhere in the deep recesses of the holding block, gently keeping a steadfast cadence to the beating of his heart. He was sitting on his creaking, lopsided bed, parallel to the wall of bars, cross-legged with his back against the wall. Resting a little uncomfortably, arms folded across his chest, he slept in broken spurts, dreaming shallowly about nothing in particular. All he could catch were odd glimpses of his life, some things that he remembered, and some that he'd rather forget. Mercedes didn't speak, too caught up in her own world of contemplation for proper conversation. Vince wasn't in the mood anyway.  
  
He snapped out of a particularly vivid daydream, for a very brief second convinced that what he had imagined was at the peak of reality. His eyes focused, their dark irises seeming to take on a even bleaker hue. He shook his head, listening to the unrelenting dripping of the broken water pipe. He had heard somewhere that time in prison wasn't the same as time on the outside, that somehow it went fast. Vince didn't think he could believe that. He had never been behind bars for the time required to find that new standard for seconds ticking by. What he did know about the prison cell was that it was incredibly boring.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
Vince raised an eyebrow, not expecting Mercedes to speak with such suddenness. He forgot about the dripping water, turning his attention to her, his eyes asking the question he would have said he had the will to speak. She was sitting directed across from him, slightly reclined against the stone wall that rose angrily behind her. She had wiped away the dripping mascara and smeared lipstick, and Vince had to admit, although a little plain, she looked good.  
  
"It's just that you were staring off into space with such intensity," she laughed. "I thought something might be wrong. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you." She pushed her short brown hair out of her face and secured it safely behind her ears, looking away from him in a movement that could have been interpreted as shyness. Vince blinked and shook his head in a way of showing her that she hadn't disturbed him at all.  
  
"So, you're going back to Liberty," Mercedes pointed out. "I've never been up there. Daddy would never let me. He said there was too much crime up there or something." She shrugged. "I don't know he was always a little overprotective if you know what I mean."  
  
Vince nodded, having no other response at his disposal. He'd always known Liberty City was a dangerous place to live. That was the whole reason he led the life that he did, but he had never thought of what he was doing as a real crime. It felt more to him like a race for survival. It was kill or be killed, get money where it could be gotten, take what was on the floor, and get where there was to go. Sure, his job happened to take lives, but he'd much rather be known for being a murderer than be famous for being murdered. To some people, he supposed that sounded brutal and outrageous, but he was long past caring what other people thought.  
  
"Vice City is full of it too," Mercedes went on. "Crime is a way of life all over this country. Truth be told, I'm attracted to it. That's why I hang around Tommy so often. Living like he does, and you do, forces people to be untouchable. I have to admit. It turns me on." She slipped off her bed and was suddenly face to face with Vince, leaning toward him in a kneeling position. He frowned and leaned away, unsure of her intentions. He was afraid she was going to jump on top of him at any moment, which he had come to the conclusion would be very awkward.  
  
"Is it scary living in Liberty City?"  
  
He shook his head slowly, gently pushing her back out of his lap. His eyes darted to one side. This was not the time, nor the place for that sort of thing. He was self conscious with the guard so near by, and he didn't really know why. Any other place and he would have been more that happy to comply with her advances, but still he resisted.  
  
"Well," she said, sitting back on her haunches, clearly annoyed by Vince's unreceptive response, "at least there you'll have a bigger cell. The prison system is bigger, better funded. I'm sure the walls won't crash in on you so often."  
  
Vince shrugged. He had always been a more than a little claustrophobic. It was a fear that he had come to blame on an incident involving Big Brother Tommy locking him a closet until Dad got home. Glancing at the gray walls of the prison block, he decided Mercedes was right. Now, he couldn't wait to get out of there, whether it was with guns blazing or in the back of a truck. Or both. His eyes rested uncomfortably on the bars, darkening with the remembrance of Lance's betrayal.  
  
The stone wall to the right shuddered. Mercedes gave it a rather odd look as gunshots sounded on the opposite side. Immediately Vince shot into a standing position, his companion rising as well, albeit a little more slowly. Suspicion was evident in both pairs of eyes. Something was definitely about to happen. It was only a matter of figuring out which side it was going to come from so that proper cover could be taken.  
  
Vince moved to the center of the cell, his head cocked to one side as if he was listening for something. His face clouded with a look of concentration for a long moment. Sudden realization fell upon him and took hold of Mercedes's wrist, pulling her toward the corner at the head of her cot. He pushed her down in a sitting position and moved to kneel in front of her, his arms braced against the wall behind her. He was acting as a shield.  
  


* * *

  
"Goddamn it!"  
  
Vercetti flinched instinctively as bullets ricocheted off the bullet-proof back doors of the police car. Slamming the steering wheel rather violently to the right, the vehicle fishtailed around the corner of the holding building and raced toward the back of the compound. Obviously, he had tripped a sense of alarm within the station. The middle-aged guard at the gate had nonchalantly opened the gate for the approaching squad car, scarcely glancing up from the small portable television he had balanced on his knees. A casual look up had put criminal and cop in eye-to-eye contact and all hell had broken loose. Once the guard came to the proper conclusion that Vercetti wasn't a police officer, he had stood up, sending the television crashing to the floor, and fumbled with this transistor radio. Bullets began to fly, and out of nowhere, security vehicles moved to block the rogue police car's path.  
  
Vercetti squinted at the road ahead of him, hands gripping the leather steering wheel with white knuckles. The car's engine roared like an angry lion, trying its hardest to comply with the pedal-to-the-floor request. Its driver let out a stunned yelp as a armored police van pulled out of a storage garage to the left, forming an effective road block. No wanting to plow the bomb-rigged car into such heavy opposition, Vercetti jerked the wheel to one side, sending his vehicle shooting down a narrow passageway in between two buildings. Taking a rapid right turn, he was back on track. He found his way back to the main road and brought the car around so it broad- sided the building on the furthest end of the compound. Vince's building.  
  
He was a little stunned by the impact, and he shook his head, seeing stars. He found himself moving without thinking, drawing his Colt Python from his waistband and climbing out of the car. Stumbling a little, he raised the gun and stared firing upon hapless officers who had been too slow to get into vehicles and were hence forced to protect their workplace on foot. They dove for cover, Vercetti's patience with the weapon outlasting theirs. His aim was far more reputable. Vercetti darted around the corner of a building adjacent to the one he was about to gain access to, praying no one would sneak up on him from behind. He fished the remote from his pocket and flipped up the plastic cover.  
  
The earth shook as the bomb ripped apart the car, the first explosion sending it jumping into the air. The second erupted as the gas tank blew. Everyone in the near vicinity dove for cover, even Vercetti himself. Some were a little less than fast enough, and their screams disintegrated with their bodies. Vercetti grimaced at the sound of it, but no matter, the job was done. There was a large, gaping hole in the wall, smoke rising to obscure its size. He picked his way past the charred remains of the car, tripping over one of the strewn bricks in the process. Catching himself on the ragged edge of the orifice, he peered inside.  
  
"Eh...Vince? Mercedes?"  
  


* * *

  
"Vince, what the hell is going on?"  
  
Mercedes obviously didn't have the keen sense of danger that her cellmate had, so effectively, she was being left in the proverbial darkness. Panicked yells and gunshots reported from all around, adding to the wretched sound of the leaking water pipe. Something was terribly wrong outside of the barred walls, and Mercedes had the distinct feeling that she was about to be right in the middle of it. Vince hovered over her, his head turned to one side, eyes surveying the cell. He remained impossibly still, the only signs of life within him being his always moving gaze and ragged breathing. She was touched at how quickly he had moved to protect her, and she wondered what it meant.  
  
He was a hard man to predict, a long wolf by nature and taciturn beyond a reasonable doubt. This made it nearly impossibly to tell what he was thinking, and the was rather infuriating. She liked him, that was for sure, but it was difficult to extract any mutual feeling from him. She didn't know what his relationship with Maria was, but somewhere in the dark recesses of her consciousness, she hoped it wasn't serious.  
  
The wall at Vince's back rocked again with the impact of some unseen object, and both occupants of the cell tensed visibly. The gray bricks rattled and little clouds of dust rose into the air. More gunshots echoed through the hollow space. Suddenly, there was a brief reprieve from the noise, and Mercedes would have relaxed had Vince's eyes not fallen upon her with such deathly seriousness. Then, completely without warning, the wall came apart with explosive force, pieces of it peeling off and hurtling across the cell. All the air was sucked from the room as it fueled the now raging fire. Another detonation followed not far after, and the flying debris gained velocity. Positioned in front of her, Vince too quite a bit of the punishment being dished out, and after a short moment, he fell slack against her. Mercedes cried out in surprise, the weight of his body suffocating her. Murmuring an incoherent apology to him, she pushed his lifeless frame away and raised her arms to protect herself as the concussive blast's rage rained down.  
  
The dust began to settle, and all had fallen silent. Mercedes squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to open them because she knew that she would see Vince's dead body in front of her. Her ears were still ringing loudly, and she felt as if her skull was going to shatter. Moving her hands to cover her ears, though it didn't really help all that much, she sat still and quiet.  
  
Tommy Vercetti's voice floated to her, strangely muffled, and she risked a glance up. Her vision was bleared, tears escaping her in a vain attempt to clear them. The tall, approaching man was blurred, and she blinked several times to focus it. Vercetti was standing above her, shaking his head.  
  
"You all right?"  
  
She could barely hear him. Removing her hands from the sides of her head, she looked about and then nodded. Then she remembered Vince. With slow horror she turned her sights to him, partly covered with small pieces of rock and plaster. She gently reached over and shook his inert frame. He didn't respond. Vercetti followed her gaze and sighed at the display of his brother. Blood ran form various cuts on Vince's face and hands, and from the sizable gash in the back of his head, but aside from being unconscious, he looked okay from the most part.  
  
"He's fine Mercedes, but we've got to get out of here before the boys outside remember that there's a criminal on the loose," Vercetti said. Stooping down, he managed to sling Vince's body over his shoulder and stand back up. Mercedes got up slowly, wiping blood away from her split lip. Ignoring the little stream of the stuff that was leaking from a cut on her cheek, she followed Vercetti out past the combusted police car.  
  
Vercetti picked up the pace once he was outside and drew his gun again. Dark eyes scanned the horizon for a moment, finding it seemingly deserted. He took a deep breath, repositioning his brother's unconscious body on his shoulder. Stealing a quick glance at Mercedes and beckoned for her to come out and take a look at the surroundings. She did so, skirting around the feebly burning carcass of the patrol car. She nearly stumbled backwards as Vercetti tossed the Colt Python in her direction.  
  
She fumbled around with it before catching it successfully. "What's this?"  
  
"We've got to get from here to the gate. This place may look empty, but those cops are around somewhere," Vercetti answered with a shrug. "It'll be okay. What do you think?" Shaken as the police officers may have been due to the blast, they weren't about to let a known criminal run right out the door. Yes, they were about someplace.  
  
"Seems tricky," Mercedes answered. Vercetti nodded and started walking down the main path, heading in a straight line. From his front pocket, he drew a small automatic pistol. Mercedes knew the deal. All she had to do was cover the two men in front of her and run. The little bastards in blue to pop right out of the woodwork. Everyone wanted to be a hero nowadays.  
  
They hadn't gone two or three meters when the first onslaught of bullets began raining down. Vercetti broke into the swiftest run that he could muster with Vince's dead weight upon him. He raised the pistol and began his retaliation, making from the gate as quickly as possible. Mercedes too brought up the heavy weapon and fired. For a few long moments, there was nothing to hear but the reports from dozens of hot gun barrels. Vercetti grunted as ammunition from the opposition stung him, merely grazing over his flesh in non vital areas. He looked Mercedes, who was fiddling with the gun she had been entrusted with.  
  
"Forget it," he called. "Let's get the fuck out of here!"  
  
They made it to the guard booth, and Vercetti disposed of the man there with one pull of the trigger without a moment's hesitation. He moved through the booth to the other side of the gate, handing Vince off to Rosenberg and Maria, who were waiting. They hauled the younger Vercetti to a waiting van while the older turned around, allowing Mercedes passage past him. He fired off a few shots as half a dozen police officers rushed toward him, their cars forgotten. Out of breath and exhausted, Vercetti canned the whole idea and ran, diving into the van just as Maria pulled it away from the curb, its tires screaming. Mercedes caught a hold of him and hung on while Rosenberg pulled the rear door shut to seal them safely inside.  
  
"Shit," Vercetti grumbled, shooting a glance at Vince as he surveyed his minor wounds. "The things I do for my family..."  
  


* * *

  
"He did what?!"  
  
The young rookie cop, freshly out of the academy and acutely baby faced stood a timid step backward, unsure of how to react to Special Agent Patrick Ford's notorious temper. He, being youngest of the seven cops chosen to accompany Lance Vance, Ford, and Graydon Creed to a secure location across town from the prison block, had drawn the short straw, and he could hear the muffled snickers of the older officers as he had trudged off to deliver the bad news.  
  
"He...uh...well Tommy Vercetti busted the whole place pretty good, and the two prisoners we had been detaining are now long gone. A few people said they drove off in a dark blue utility van with bogus plates," the rookie shrugged. "We got nothing."  
  
"Big Brother came to rescue Junior," Creed observed. He was leaning against the far wall of the tiled observation room, his jacket long forgotten and his tie loosened. He watched Ford silently fume, finding it somewhat comical as his partner's faced welled up with scarlet coloring.  
  
"Well what the fuck did you think it was, you idiot?! Didn't I warn you about this shit! I knew this was going to happen. We can't win with these bastards. Ah, no wonder Vercetti owns this stupid city. The people here are too dumb to deal with him," Ford growled in a carefully even tone, looking as though his eyes were going to pop right out of his skull.  
  
Saying that Vercetti owned Vice City was like saying fish could swim. Everything that was anything in the place proudly waved the Vercetti flag. It was all purchased with what might be called legitimate money, so nothing about this ownership could be used against him. Hell, the guy even paid taxes on most of the public property. Sure, it would be easy to pull some of the illegitimate stuff out from under him, but making a case would be difficult.  
  
Ford's eyes turned to the nervous rookie. "Don't you have something to do? Get the hell out of here," he ordered loudly. The rookie wasted no time and was gone before anyone could take another breath. "Ain't this just some shit."  
  
"Well, what do you want to do now; go back on the hunt," Creed asked a little wearily. All he really wanted to do was to go back to his hotel room and go to sleep. They had been at this for days now, and he was pretty sure that Vercetti had had more sleepless night than he had. Things were starting to catch up to him already, and if the jail break was any indication of Vercetti's failing strength, or his lack thereof, then he supposed he and Ford were in for some trouble. It would be only a matter of time before someone cracked. Ford looked like he was getting to ready even as the thoughts ran through his mind.  
  
"I want to lop someone's head off, right here and now," Ford answered rather seriously, a baleful look overtaking his hard gaze. Creed backed up a step, hands in front of him, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Ford gave him a dirty look. "Not you, you moron."  
  
Creed was about to say some infinitely witty response when a look of genuine enlightenment came over his partner's face. "Hey," Ford said, successfully cutting Creed off before he even had the chance to talk. "I think I've got an idea. It's something I read in one of Vercetti's files."  
  
Creed looked bewildered. "What?"  
  
"Let's head back to the hotel. We'll get cleaned up. Then pack all your shit and I'll make a phone call. We're going back to Liberty City," Ford answered solidly, obviously internally satisfied with some notion that was locked away inside in his mind. Vince and Mercedes breaking out of custody seemed long forgotten.  
  


* * *

  
A/N: Hey guys, sorry this chapter took me so long to post. In case your wondering, my little bout with Jamie Strauss ended with me losing my property, so I'm writing from memory here. There is a fluke in this chapter that I am indeed aware of. If the squad car were to blow up as described, there would be a lot more damage and death first of all, and second of all, it'd remain on fire. If you've read carefully, Tommy just sort of walks past it, like it's not on fire. Sorry. I realized the mistake too late. If it really bothers you, then eh, you'll get over it. Anyway, hope you enjoyed the rest of it. Also, I'm looking to post a new part to Getting to Know the Reaper. If anyone has any ideas, review that story. Thanks.  
  
--Maverick (those who know me well know my real name, Ha!) 


	13. Accusations

There was that damn dripping again, but this time, it was different. It was more rapid, more water falling at a faster pace. It was because of this change that Vincent Vercetti came to realize that he was not longer in the holding cell, and that the events he though he had dreamed had actually happened. But then again, realizations were a bitch. Everything hurt, damn, it even hurt to breathe. He wondered, for a moment, when he had fallen unconscious. What did they do...beat him with a baseball bat? That wouldn't be a first.  
  
At least...he didn't think so. Nothing like a heavy hitter with a stick to make you lose consciousness. But Vince decided that he hadn't been the homerun ball as things started to come back to him. Good, at least he wasn't in that despicable jail cell any longer. That would have most certainly been the death of him. He didn't know what had happened after he had blacked out, but he assumed it had been something good.  
  
Gingerly, he felt the bandage that wrapped around the circumference of his head, pulling some of the stray hair in front out over it so that he looked more like he should be exercising than bedridden. His movements attracted the attention of Maria, who until she had spotted him, had been sitting on the couch near the back of what appeared to be a large warehouse.  
  
"Stay still, Vince. I have no doubts that the bump on your head hurts like a bitch," she told him, coming to his side.  
  
Vince wasn't one to follow the doctors orders, so he took the opportunity to take a look around. Big mistake. His vision blurred and he had to shut his eyes to ward of the wave of dizziness that hit him like a full out typhoon. He exhaled.  
  
"What did I tell you? Don't you listen? We're in one of 8-Ball's garages. You remember 8-Ball right? We're safe for the time being, so don't worry too much. Tommy's kind of hot right now, and I'm not entirely sure why, but he keep muttering to himself. We're all sort of steering clear of him right now," Maria said, her eyes narrowing as she glanced over her shoulder.  
  
"Is he awake," came Vercetti's voice from somewhere else in the large room. He's tall shadow appeared, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "What the hell do you have to say for yourself, little brother?" The last words were spat out like raw anger, and Vercetti's eyes seemed to light up in the dark. "You tell the FBI Brigade where we were going to be? You have that whole thing planned out since they pulled you out at the fucking sinkhole of a city you live in? Get close to Tommy Vercetti and then open fire? Hm? Get yourself caught and strike a deal, is that it?" He nudged Vince in the side with his foot. "Is that it?!"  
  
"Jesus Christ, Tommy, back off," Maria protested. "There's no way Vince talked to the cops! Don't you get it yet? Vince doesn't talk, and for good reason, so get away from him. Don't you dare kick him again." She grabbed hold of Vercetti's arm, attempting to pull him away.  
  
Vercetti's hard gaze never left his brother. For a moment, it looked like he might lay off and slink back into a corner to stew in his own misguided anger. Instead he pushed past Maria and stooped down to pick up Vince by the lapels of his blood soaked jacket. "Great act, you little bastard. Get it all hot and bothered by being called a traitor." He slammed Vince against the wall. "There's ways of making you talk, friend, and if you know what's good for you, you'd best use all the breath you have left after I kill you to do so!"  
  
Vince winced, all the air in this lungs leaving him as he hit the wall. It felt as if his head exploded, and it was all he could to not to pass out. His eyes met Vercetti's, a deep hate burning deep behind the dark brown irises. How could the man jump to conclusion like that? Was he that stupid? Hadn't he seen all the signs? Didn't he know his own blood better than that? Next to his hate, he felt hurt.  
  
He didn't have much strength in him to fight, but Vince summoned what he had and broke Vercetti's grip, his eyes flashing with a mixture of loathing and pain. Vercetti made a move to grab him again, but Mercedes appeared from the other side of the room, jostled out of the sleep she had fallen into the moment she had hit the floor of the van. She saw what was happening and was at Vercetti's side before anyone saw her move.  
  
"Get a hold of yourself, you overgrown wheelman!" She growled, latching onto his arm. He looked at her, and from the intense look of his face, it appeared he was about to strike her. Nevertheless, she held her ground, peering at him with equal passion. "Don't you get it? Vincent's not the man you're looking for. It's Lance! Can't you add up the clues? Lance is never anywhere to be found when things happen. I mean, you didn't bust him out of jail with us, now did you?!"  
  
"How the hell can I trust you, Mercedes? You were in the same cell as Vince. How do I know you're not in on some stupid deal to have me strung up in front of the supreme court? I've known Lance for a long time, sister, and I've never had reason to-"  
  
Mercedes cut him off. "Just stop being so fucking blind for one freaking second here, Tommy!"  
  
Vercetti sighed. "All right. I get it, okay? Vince, I-"  
  
Vince shook his head, not wanting to hear false sentiments from a guy who would throw his family to the dogs before he's even consider a 'friend' as shark bait. He leaned there against the wall for a long moment, refusing to meet Vercetti's gaze. Finally, he raised his middle finger and walked away, finding the door and slamming it behind him.  
  
"Frankly," Maria said, "I think that was really low, Tommy. Didn't anyone every teach you 'family first'? If you can't trust your own brother, who can you trust?" That said, she moved out of his line of sight and disappeared out the door.  
  
She found Vince sitting against the wall in the alleyway, just to the left of the stairs leading into 8-Ball's lair. He picked up a lone stone and tossed across the narrow opening, watching it clink unhappily against the steel door of one of the garages lining the opposite wall. He didn't acknowledge her presences, nor her newfound stance, with her arms folded over her chest.  
  
She regarded him candidly for a long moment before sighing at his miserable state. He looked like a lost child, for crying out loud. "Why don't you ever talk to me, huh?"  
  
Vince gave her a strange look, almost as if he didn't quite understand the question. Why didn't he talk to her? That wasn't an inquiry that came up fleetingly. In fact, it almost never came up at all. He had always told himself there was a valid reason for his vow of silence. He didn't figure it was causing anyone any harm. Plus, it made the job easier. If a man doesn't talk at all, he won't talk when things get rough. He'd stayed true to that motto, and as a result, had gained his reputation of the Silent Killer.  
  
It wasn't all business that kept his lips sewn shut, however. He guessed he had just assumed everyone around him knew why the vow was made in the first place. He had assumed Maria knew. And those who didn't know really didn't need to. He shrugged, expectedly at a loss for words as Maria approached him. To really figure out why he didn't speak was to go back and dig up a part of his past that he'd just as soon bury.  
  
If anyone were to want to make Vincent Vercetti wince without throwing a single punch, all he or she would have to do is mention a single name. A single, detestable name.  
  
Catalina.  
  
She had been the source of all his problems, right from the start. He had met her on a heist being pulled for an underground automobile syndicate he'd found work for when he turned twenty-one. They'd sort of bonded, getting to know more about each other as time went on, and soon, it escalated to something beyond work hours. Vince wasn't a talker by nature, but with Catalina, he felt like he could say what little there was to say to her. He was comfortable around her.  
  
But then, as with all relationships, tragedy struck. Things that seem too good to be true usually are. Catalina talked him to pulling a robbery at some back downtown, and after it was all over, she had shot him down. Literally. The bullet nearly killed him, and he went up the river while she ran free with millions in cash.  
  
It was tremendous blow, and Vince decided it was best not to think too much about it. Before he mentally blocked it from his mind, he decided that his mouth would stay shut. Speech was a sign of trust. If you got into a conversation with someone, that someone was liable to think you had entrusted them with a part of yourself, whether you had or not. It was a way of opening doors to yourself that weren't intentionally unlocked. With those doors ajar, opportunity arose to exploit them. Catalina had gained Vince's trust, even got him out into talking again, and then she had used him a sponge in her escape from the bank. He had gone to prison for her concocted plan.  
  
Of course, he had taken care of Catalina. She wouldn't ever be back to harm anyone ever again. He had made sure of that, standing there on the Cochrane Dam, looking through the scope of a class A rocket launcher. It had only taken one well aimed shot, and then it was raining fire. Yeah. He had taken care of Catalina. That bitch.  
  
People were like that, Vince had decided. They were capable of taking a man and his misplaced trust in speech and throw them right out the window like a sack of potatoes. Vince wasn't about to make that fall again. It was a lonely life to live, especially since he was quite fond of a few people he could name. Maria was one. Mercedes was another. But to speak to them was to open himself up to deceit and betrayal again. He couldn't have that. He wouldn't have that.  
  
Looking at Maria's curious gaze was enough to give her a discontented sigh, but he shook his head, his shoulders jumping in a small shrug. She came to sit beside him, a smile playing on her lips.  
  
"That's okay, Vin. You don't have to talk if you don't want to."  
  
He didn't say anything.  
  
"You're out of your mind," Graydon Creed told his partner with proper conviction. "You think we can just walk into Forelli territory, no I take that back, right into the presence of Santino Forelli himself and then live to see the next three seconds? I think you have finally lost it." He sat back, still shaking his head in disbelief as the rented car moved through traffic in Shoreside Vale.  
  
"My, aren't you the ray of optimism I've been looking for all my life," Patrick Ford answered sarcastically. "Look kid, we're not going into there with guns blazing. We're asking for his help, and if he gives us requested help, there's stuff in it for him. Believe these mafia goons love a good deal. Anything that will make them richer than they already are. They're greedy bastards. And anyway, we're just two guys. It's not like we have a SWAT team to back us up." He squinted at the street signs. "Is this our exit."  
  
"No, it's the next one, and of course we're only two guys. That'll make our bodies easier to hide. It's less limbs to hack off. And how do they know we don't have a SWAT team hiding somewhere? It's not like it's stapled to our foreheads or something. This plan is lunacy, and you know it. I'm not going in there just be stuffed into to the trunk of some guy's car."  
  
"You've been watching too much TV," Ford decided. "Now listen up. It's not going to be as bad as all that. You've just got to keep your cool and promise you won't freak out. These people might be known killers, but they're just people, and if there's something in it for them, I promise they'll be all ears. And anyway, Vercetti's got to be as big a thorn in their sides as he is in ours."  
  
"Pray you're right, Pat," Creed growled.  
  
Twenty minutes and three wrong turns later, Ford pulled the rented car up in front of Marco's Bistro. It looked quaint from the outside, like a nice family establishment, but the two FBI agents that emerged from the vehicle knew better. They bypassed the front door and traveled around the back to a partially hidden back door. Ford took in a deep breath and raised a hand to knock. It sounded like three heavy gun shots.  
  
Almost immediately, a tall man with wide shoulders and an equally wide body appeared in the door way, pushing the door aside like a piece of misplaced chicken wire. His cold eyes flickered across the two men standing there, and his bushy eyebrows seemed to shallow up his face has he narrowed his eyes at them. He didn't say anything for a minute, which to Creed and Ford seemed like hours, and then he huffed.  
  
In a thick Italian-Bronx accent he said, "What the hell are you doing here. No one called for you."  
  
"Ah," Ford articulated. "We're here to discuss business with Sonny Forelli." Ford's eyes sized this man up, and he was quite impressed. The man was the size of a redwood, with a neck as thick as a tree trunk. He didn't look like someone Ford would want to tangle with. He breathed deep, hoping he wouldn't say the wrong thing and get everyone mad at him. Next to him, Creed remained silent.  
  
"Gustav," came a voice from somewhere inside. "Who's at the damn door? What are you doing just standing there and letting all the outside air in here."  
  
Instantly, "Gustav's" demeanor changed. He looked a little skittish all of a sudden. "I-I uh, sorry Mr. Forelli. There's some guy here to see you. Do you want me to let them in?"  
  
"Who are they? Check them out, will ya? Outside preferably, and close the door," Sonny answered, still unseen. He sounded different than Ford had imagined him to sound, but he sounded Mafioso enough to do some major damage if someone were to step out of line.  
  
Gustav stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him. "I've never seen you guys around here before. You new in town. You want jobs, is that it?" He leaned real close to Creed, who took an involuntary step backward. "You got any form of it on you?" Ford gulped.  
  
Before Creed or his partner had any idea what was happening, they were being led into the back room of bistro, Gustav behind them with a gun in each hand. The muzzles of said guns where pressed rather harshly into the back of each other FBI agents' heads, respectively. They had their hands in front of their bodies, palms out as they had been instructed to do so somewhere along the way. They stumbled down a tight hallway and into a large room with dim lighting.  
  
Forelli and some of his henchmen were in the middle of a high stakes game of poker, and the wide round table was weighted down with rolls of bills, coins, cards, papers, and pocket watches. Forelli himself was seated to the rear of the room, turned halfway in his chair, looking comfortable and relaxed within his kingdom. A hand of five cards was held loosely in his hand, the glint of the jeweled rings encircling his fingers reflecting in the light. He glanced up when Gustav shoved Creed and Ford into the room.  
  
He raised his hands in inquiry. "What's this, Gustav?" He had a burning cigar clamped tightly in his teeth, the smoke curling up and finding no good source of ventilation in the room. It then settled over everything, blurring Forelli's image as he sat there in his light blue suit, the sleeves rolled up to mid forearm.  
  
Gustav relinquished one gun, the one pressed to Ford's head to pull two black identification wallets out of his breast pocket. He opened them and tossed them onto the table. Then, he went back to aiming his firearm at the back of Ford's skull. "Got trouble right here, boss," he said, the smile audible in his words.  
  
Forelli leaned forward to get a better look. He leaned back, deep in the throes of laughter. "Oh! FBI, eh?! That's rich." He took a few breaths in between guffaws. "You two have got to be pulling my leg. Really now, who put you up to this? Which crew? The only Leone gang? What is this?"  
  
Ford tried to sputter a response, but Gustav pushed the gun harder against his head, cutting him off. Obviously, it was not polite to talk when the boss was having such a good time at one's expense.  
  
"Look at these badges. They seem pretty real to me, don't they Jimmy?" Forelli asked the man next to him. He tapped him on the shoulder with the back of his hand. "Take a real good look at those."  
  
Jimmy grinned and said, "Yeah, Sonny. Those look pretty damn real to me."  
  
Forelli sighed, shaking his head. He put down his cards and stood up. "What makes you cops thing you can come in here, by yourselves no less, and expect to take me and my boys down? Hm? I can see you're out of words. Perhaps you'd like to be more comfortable." He rubbed the back of his head. "I know how much those things can hurt when pushed up against the back of your noodle like that." He waved at Gustav, and the pressure of the guns left the two agents.  
  
Before either of them could sigh in relief, all other seven men in the room pulled guns and aimed them directly at them. Creed inhaled sharply.  
  
"Now," Forelli said, coming around the table to face Ford and Creed at an arm's length. "that wasn't very smart, now was it?"  
  
"But we're not here to arrest you!" Creed blurted. Seven clicks sounded off as seven hammers were pulled back and locked into place. Seven gun points hovered nearby, itching to expel some real fire. Forelli looked vaguely intrigued. "Oh? Then what? Looking to give up your lives as caped avengers and join Darth Vader on his side of the tracks? Or are you just looking to be added to the Dark Side's long payroll list?" This extracted a few laughs from some of the henchmen, which made the agents nervous, as fingers were still very close to triggers.  
  
"No," Ford answered. "We're here to make you a deal."  
  
Forelli smiled. "Really now. Well boys, I'm listening."  
  
A/N: I'm ALIVE!!!! Hi guys, so sorry for the lack of updates. I've had all the problems in the world over here. Barring more poor health and other setbacks, chapter should come up much faster from now on. This one's a little shorter than the rest, and for that I'm sorry. You'll just have to deal. Anyway, your reviews are appreciated, as always, and please accept my deepest apologies for my neglect to this work. 


	14. Capping the Collectors

Vince couldn't remember much of what had happened after he'd had his little "conversation" with Maria in the alleyway. He supposed he'd just sat there for a while. He could recall picking up a rock and tossing it at the metal doorway across the way. He could also recall the metallic clang that had erupted from that contact. What he couldn't remember, however, was how he had ended up back inside the large garage with a brother that he hated, a woman he wasn't sure about, Maria, and a crazy coked up lawyer.

"Wait, wait. Hold on! Simon, I can't understand you when you…what?!"

Vince awoke with a start, nearly toppling off the couch he had somehow gotten stretched out upon. Vercetti was across the dimly lit room, pacing back and forth as if he couldn't bear to stand still, a cellular phone pressed to his ear. Vince remained quiet for a moment, content to just watch and listen.

"They did what?! Jesus Christ…Okay. Don't move. I'll be right there." Vercetti calmly pressed the power button on the phone and patiently listened to the melodic chiming as the device turned off, and then promptly threw it to the ground, satisfied to watch it break into three or four pieces. He noticed at his little brother was watching him from the couch with a somewhat amused expression on his face.

Vercetti looked a little sheepish for a moment before turning. "Vince, look, I'm sorry for what happened earlier. It was stupid of me to jump to conclusions. I was wrong okay? I really need you on this, so if you're not going to help me then you'd better get up and cart your ass all the way back up to Liberty, because I can't afford to have you here otherwise. Understand?"

Vince rolled his eyes. He was mute, not stupid. He didn't need to have things spelled out for him. He stood up, ran a hand through his hair. He wanted to comment on the fact that a promise coming from Vercetti was just about as trustworthy as a cat setting a mouse trap and calling it a burlesque house. Then again, what else was he going to do to pass the time? Going back to Liberty would earn him some package boy gigs, maybe a few burn jobs, but nothing as intriguing as what had been going on here so far. So, why the hell not?

"You in?" Vercetti asked with a half hopeful, crooked smile.

Vince nodded. Yeah, sure, no big deal, right?

"Okay," Vercetti said. "This is what I need from you. We're going to go over to my print shop for a few minutes to check on Simon. Apparently, he's been worked over real well. Then, we're going to go on the hunt for these guys. That's where you come in. Come on." He led the way out to the alleyway where Vince had escaped to earlier, and then around a corner to an idling Sentinel. "Get in."

Vince barely had enough time to pull the door open before Vercetti gunned the accelerator and was off down the street. Vince, momentarily panicked, grabbed the top of the door and swung himself inside. He pulled the door shut and breathed a sigh. Sheesh, and they said he was inconsiderate with passengers in his car. He settled into to the passenger seat, turning his head to glance at Vercetti for a long moment before looking out the window and the landscape that was zipping by at an alarming rate.

He grabbed a map from the glove compartment and opened it. It spread about the length of his arm span, and Vercetti made an irritated noise as his brother hit him in the face. Vince's eyes scanned the large paper for a long time before he carefully folded it back up, having memorized a base knowledge of the entire city of Vice. He was quick like that. He settled back into his chair, satisfied.

Vercetti guided the car around a few bends in the road, darted through a narrow alleyway (which actually made Vince scoot over in his seat for fear of being scraped against the wall outside the door), and skidded to a rather violent halt outside what looked like an empty warehouse. Vince looked around for any signs of life, but there didn't seem to be any. The parking lot, prior to their entrance, had been desolate.

Vercetti exited the vehicle and slammed the door behind him, his eyes sweeping the area carefully to insure against unseen attackers. He then moved across the parking lot to a metal utility door tucked in the shadows on one side of the building. Vince followed him, and they filed inside, the heavy door swinging shut behind them. Vercetti turned.

"Stay here, okay? Try not to touch anything," Vercetti instructed before disappearing into a back room of the establishment.

Vince stared after him, feeling offended. Vercetti had said that as if Vince wasn't a grown man himself. He wasn't some little kid in a candy store. He knew what he should get into and what he shouldn't. At least, he knew that from his own set of morals. His code of conduct wouldn't seem particularly normal to just your average Joe on the street. That was for damn sure. He shook his head, his mouth forming a well concealed snarl. He suddenly wondered why he was helping Vercetti in the first place. He was beginning to feel like a tool locked in a shed…only to be brought out when he was needed the most.

He leaned against one of the printing machines, folding his arms across his chest. He reminded himself that he was doing a job, not just hanging about for Tommy Vercetti to bark orders at. There was resentment in the thought. He glanced at the printing presses, narrowing his eyes at the very real looking money being expelled on large sheets of paper. Well, whatever floats his boat.

Something about the old print shop reminded him of his father. It could have been the smell of flowing ink…or the sound of shuffling papers, but whatever it was, it brought him back to the old days. He could remember visiting the printing shop where his father held his third job. The place had smelled like year old newspapers, the raw stench of working men rising from warm bodies like heat. The continuous cranking of the machines and the permanent stamp of the words was a droning background noise. Vince had liked being in the print shop, especially because his father often got him out of school to "teach him the tools of the trade."

This print shop was certainly nicer than the one Vince had been to as a kid, but he didn't like it as much. There was too much resentment already floating about in the air. He couldn't put his finger on why, but the place was unsettling to him. There came the soft sounds of a conversation from the back room Vercetti had disappeared into, and after a moment, Vercetti emerged once again, this time supporting a much smaller man with gray hair and broken glasses. The old man limped along, his arm around Vercetti's shoulders as a crutch. Blood had dried and crusted in a thick river down the front of his face from a gash near his hairline. He looked pained as Vercetti helped him along, and Vince wondered just what it was that they were doing here.

"Simon," Vercetti said, gesturing with one hand, "this is my brother Vincent. He's going to be helping me out a little. Now why don't you do us a favor and let us know what happened here?" Vercetti winced inwardly. Had he really said that? That was something cops always said when they thought they knew but wanted it confirmed. Vercetti had echoed them, succeeding in sounding as if he was talking to a child.

Simon Kelly shrugged painfully. "I was checking on printer three when these six toughs with New York accents came in and started pushing things around. I was trying to tell them to stop, Tommy. I was really was. I like to keep things organized in this place. They asked me where the vault with all the asset money was, I told them I didn't know what they were talking about, and they beat the shit out of me. Then they went into the office. That's all I remember," he said, unwittingly falling into the role of witness.

"You see where they went?" Vercetti asked, feeling stupid. Of course he hadn't seen…

"No," Kelly answered without batting an eye. "I remember hearing something about the 'other places,' like this was only their first stop or something." He shrugged. "They look all the money out of the vault in the back, and not the fake stuff either. Seemed like they knew what they were doing."

"My other assets," Vercetti growled. He spun on Vince, nearly knocking Kelly over. Vince blinked, taking a step backwards, almost as if afraid that Vercetti would strike him again. Instead, the elder brother snapped his fingers, startling even Kelly, who up until this point had seemed unfazed. "No, no. They're screwing me over! The damn mob is fucking me up!"

"You mean that Forelli guy?" The question came from Kelly.

Vercetti nodded. "The bastard is trying to take me for all the money I got. He blames me for the damn raid on the coke deal that went down about a year ago. Now he's taxing me damn it! I can't believe this!" He pulled at his short hair for a moment before spinning around again, pointing at Kelly without saying anything. Then he looked at Vince.

"Okay. Okay. They're not going to stop at Print Works. As a matter of fact, they are probably halfway around the city by now. They probably paired off and went in separate directions. You know, to cover more ground. Vince, I want you to find these punks. Pick them up in places you know I own. The Malibu…you've been there…and the taxi company. You've been to both those places. Check them out. I need to pick some stuff up at the boat house. Then I'll wait at the ice cream shop. They couldn't have hit everywhere yet."

They moved out of the store together, Vercetti nodding his brother as a way of telling him to get going. He'd have to take care of Kelly, who still looked a little bewildered. Vince shrugged and moved away from the building, looking both ways down the streets as if he was afraid of being hit. Vercetti watched him, shaking his head as his kid brother apprehended a blue Sentinel from an elderly tourist couple. Vince had a reputation of being a "reckless" driver, and as he pounded the gas without bothering to properly feather the clutch, Vercetti could see why.

As Vince's car zoomed away like a rocket ship with the wrong coordinates, Vercetti turned to his own task at hand. He instructed Kelly to go into the back room and lie down, to take it easy while he got some work done, and promised that he'd return to assist him as soon as he could. He then climbed into his own car and sped off, leaving the sounds of his tires squealing to rise to the darkening sky. A storm was brewing.

Vince sped back to 8-Ball's garage, jumping out of the stolen car almost before it had a chance to cease movement. He bolted through the doors and rummaged through some of Vercetti's belongs before finding what he was looking for, a shot gun, which had been carefully hidden. He smiled and grabbed the extra pellets. Then he stood and ran back his car. He didn't have a lot of time to waste. Just as he pulled away from the garage, the sky broke and rain began to pour.

He decided it would be easiest to check out taxi company first. He shifted gears and wove his way through the slow moving traffic, squinting through the windshield. Visibility was very low, but it wouldn't slow him down. It never had. He simply turned on his windshield wipers as high as they could go and plowed forth. Other cars on the road puttered along as if they had all gained about seventy years, and Vince sped on past them. Thunder rolled around in the clouds, almost as if pathetic fallacy of Tommy Vercetti's waning patience.

He came up on Kaufman Cab Company from behind, still struggling to see. Much to his surprise, two men ran in front of his vehicle and he swerved this car to avoid hitting them. He silently fumed. Damn pedestrians thought they owned the whole damn road. It took a moment for Vince to regain his bearings, and it took another moment for him to realize that the men who had scampered into his path were now mounting a small scooter parked on the wrong side of the road. One of them was toting a large black briefcase. Vince stared at them.

Then, as if be second nature, he raised his hand, put the car into gear, and sped forth through the rain. At first, it looked as if Vince's renegade vehicle was going to zoom right on past, but this was not a scene one would see on a regular basis. Vincent Vercetti was not a fool. At the very last moment, he spun the wheel, jamming on the emergency break all in one fluid movement.

The car skidded and whipped around, fishtailing on the slippery surface of the road. The back end swiped the two men and their moped, knocking everything astray. The men fell, one falling under the wheel of Vince's still moving Sentinel. There was sickening crunch and Vince winced as the sound of bone cracking echoed up through the floor.

The other man, realizing what was going on, scrambled to his feet, half falling and half crawling to get to the briefcase that had been knocked from his grasp. Vince revved the engine, almost threatening to run the guy over. Where was he going to go? The scooter that had served as his only transportation had been destroyed. Vince shook his head. He grabbed the shotgun from the seat next to him and got out of the car, racking the slide.

The man turned to him, the expression of horror absolutely priceless as he met Vince's hard gaze. Forgetting all about the money he had collected from the cab company, he attempted to get far enough off the ground to run away. Vince watched him in silence. Pathetic.

Without a second thought, he raised the gun and fired, sending the man to a well-deserved death. Well, that was two of Forelli's henchmen down. Vince turned back to his idling car and wiped his free hand on his jacket. This proved to be a rather pointless motion, as he was soaked to the bone from the rain. Blood, diluted by water, began to pool at his feet, running in thick streams from the dead man in front of him. He shook his head. Some people were so stupid.

He stooped to pick up the briefcase before heading to the car. He skirted around more blood that seemed to coming from underneath the chassis, and got in. He gunned the car down the road. He had more vermin to find. Behind people who had witnessed the horrific slaughter stared after him in stunned silence. He'd be long gone before anyone had enough sense to call the authorities, and he knew it.

Normally, Vince had an impeccable knack for memorizing his surroundings, but Vice City was very different than Liberty. All of New York's cities were laid out on a bunch of interlocking streets, so if one were to look down on them, they would resemble a large grid. For Liberty, it was all a matter of knowing the way the grids worked on the three separate islands. Vice was spread out over two different islands like an octopus with way too many tentacles. As a result, Vince got lost.

This wasn't exactly what he was used to. He couldn't even get a good landmark. He drove around aimlessly, trying not to attract too much attention to himself, and for some reason, he couldn't help but feel insecure. He narrowed his eyes and let an irritated sigh. This was getting tiresome. His gaze slipped to one side and he blinked saw a man fall out of the window of one of the houses that lined the road. He blinked, then he made a face. Stupid crack houses. People couldn't even stay sane enough to distinguish the door from the window anymore.

He looked the other way, slowing the car to a halt, much to the annoyance of the woman in a minivan behind him. He ignored her angry shouts as he looked at the building to his right. Now, why did it seem like he should know this area? Had he seen it somewhere? Then it hit him. This was Vercetti's filming company! He was on Prawn Island. InterGlobal Films had been marked on the map. Vince nodded with the satisfaction of having finally figured out where he was.

He took a turn down the road and again ignored the woman in the minivan as she flicked him off. By pure stroke of luck, he spied a scooter parked in front of the gates of the company. It looked suspiciously like the one that the other two Forelli collectors had been riding. He marveled at this. And to think, he had been trying to get the Malibu club. He'd have missed them had he not gotten lost. He sat back in his seat, waiting for them to finish raiding the Vercetti owned establishment.

They appeared, taking no notice to the idling Sentinel with the bloody undercarriage. The rain still had yet to get it all off. It was really starting to come down now, and thunder continued to beat mercifully against the sky. Vince leaned over the steering wheel to get a better look at his next victims. They jumped on these little scooter and were about to take off when they noticed something was wrong.

Vince flicked on the headlights again, sending shaking beams of light out to them, highlighting the rain. They stared at the light, stuck like a deer in a hunter's gaze. Vince revved the engine of the car, almost daring them to scamper off like scared rabbits. They took his invitation and started the engine of the scooter.

Almost unnaturally quickly, Vince was upon them. He stepped out of the car just as the driver henchman had managed to get the scooter running. He brought up the shotgun and fired, the spray of the pellets hitting both men. The one closet to Vince, who had been clutching the black brief case full of money from the film company, met a very untimely end almost immediately. Vince took a step back as blood sprayed on this clothing.

The other man proved to have a bit more life in him. He floundered around on the ground like beached fish for a moment before turning over, giving Vince a blood filled grin. Vince raised an eyebrow. He bent down and pried the briefcase from the dead henchman's hands, wondering if, for comic detail, should walk over and beat the other guy to death with it. These expensive Italian briefcases had sharp corners. He should know. Maria had once caught him in the eye with one, and he had felt as if he was going to go blind.

The thought was quickly fleeting, but in the midst of his inner inquiries, he had lowered his guard. The dying man on the grass beside him seized this momentary lapse and pulled a small hand gun from somewhere in his clothing. He fires once before Vince realized the mistake he had made.

The shot spun him, and before he could fully comprehend what was going on, he was on the ground. The wet grass began soaking into his already drenched cargo pants. He released the breath he had been holding. Wow. That hurt. His whole body hurt. He struggled to sit up. He got to the point where he was balancing his elbow and moved his other hand to feel out what had happened. The henchman's bullet had hit him square in the stomach, but it had been halted by the bullet proof vest he didn't remember putting on. He supposed Maria had gotten him to wear it "just in case" sometime in between sitting in the alley and waking up to Vercetti's furious ranting on the phone. His belly hurt from the impact, but the vest had saved his life. Again. He slowly got to his feet, gingerly rubbing his midsection before standing fully erect. He them stooped down, picked up his fallen weapon, held it steady and fired. The man died.

Vince spun on his heel and grabbed the briefcase yet again. He threw it angrily into the back seat and climbed into his car. Yeah, he was going to have a bruise there tomorrow. He sighed, put the car back in gear and started his drive back to his rendezvous point with Vercetti. He had said the boat house, right?

Vince pulled up to the Folded Tactics Boatyard a little over fifteen minutes later and got out of the car. He could hear someone banging on something inside as he closed the door. He shoved his hands into his pockets and went around to the rear entrance, peering inside. There were two teenaged kids sitting in one of the large Catalina 22's hanging from the ceiling. Vince found this slightly odd, as they were leaning over the side, staring eagerly at something that was out of his line of vision.

"Damn it!"

Vince smirked, recognizing Vercetti's voice.

"Try tightening that's bolt, dude," one of the teens offered.

"Shut up, Jayson. I am fully capable of – Oh. Thanks," Vercetti's voice answered. A moment and a few dry rip cord pulls later, the sounds of a chainsaw filled the boat house. Vince stepped inside, his hands still in his pockets. Now, there was interesting development. Was Vercetti going to go all woodsman on him now? Vince turned around, still holding the running chainsaw. Vince stayed a safe distance away.

"Hey Junior," Vercetti greeted, "did you get that business we talked about all sorted out?"

Vince nodded and cocked a thumb over his shoulder as a signal to tell Vercetti that all the money was in the car. Vercetti nodded. "Good, good. Well, There's only one pair left then. If you hit two of them, the others are going to have to stop by just about everywhere the now dead ones didn't. I'm going to the ice cream shop to check if anyone's been bothering them."

Vince looked at the chainsaw and then back at Vercetti, his eyes asking the question.

Vercetti looked at the chainsaw too as if seeing it for the first time. He switched it off and laughed a little. "Oh yeah, this. Well, I figured since I know you'd have my shotgun, I'd get a little more creative. When I stopped by here to it up, it was a little broken. Too much…er…work last time I used it. So I was trying to fix it. I guess it works now."

Vince nodded in agreement.

"Okay. Well, do me a favor. Head back to Print Works and pick up Simon. Then meet me back at Cherry Poppers. You remember where that is? It's right up the road from here. I'm going to call Mercedes and Rosenberg and tell them to head over my place on Starfish Island. I think the cops have given up on watching the place. If these guys don't report in soon, there's no doubt that old Sonny Forelli himself is going to come looking for me."

Again, Vince nodded and turned to head out the door. Good, maybe finally he'd get some action around here.

A/N: All right guys, I'm back. I'm sorry that I left this story for a long time. In fact, I haven't been on the in quite a while. I've been having family problems as well as problems with my own personal health, but I think it's getting better now. I'll try not to neglect you all so much. Anyway, this chapter is sort of weird because I started writing it about two months and I was having difficulties figuring out where I had been going with it. I'll answer questions in review or by AIM. My name is on my profile page. I accept flame, but please make it comprehensible. I don't want, "man you sux0rz, dude! Yer stori is not da bomb!" If you hate the story enough to make comment, please explain yourself and use proper English. Anyways, enjoy guys.

- Maverick


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